Dragon Ball X: OVA 1: Kingdom Crushed
by Animaster21
Summary: The first Dragon Ball X Special. Set in the past, the Kingdom of Slavo is in the middle of a civil war, as the powerful Norr tribe rebels against the Slavoan King. And in the middle of it all, the darkest evil that Planet Haven has ever seen finds its way into the life of a small boy. Rated T for violence and general brutality. Lots of broken bones and blood. And explosions.
1. Part 1: A Dark Path

**Dragon Ball X**

Surprise!

I know I said last chapter in DBX that I'd have this down soon-ish, but it took longer than I thought. A combination of laziness and a hell-tonne of exams and assignments has diminished my output, but I've finally managed to come out with this; the very first Dragon Ball X Movie Special! It's going to be split into four (4) parts, and over the next God knows how long I'll be working hard on this as well as the main series. Hopefully. It depends, really.

For those of you new to the series, I suggest you read Volume 1 at least before you read this.

A prequel to the series, Kingdom Crushed takes place hundreds of years before the main events of the story, when the Slavoan Kingdom still governed Haven. But nothing lasts for ever…

On with Part I!

**000**

"Hey! Hey, Soan! You'll never guess what I found out about!"

Tarack stumbled up the rough dirt, his hands and feet scrabbling against the loose soil. The Slavoan child crossed the crest of the hill and he looked with bright eyes down the other side.

The grass was greener here, waving gently under the breeze. At the base of the hill stood the shore to Fowl Lake, the sparkling blue surface lapping rhythmically against the rocky shore, and beyond stood Mt Fowl, the grandest mountain on all of Haven. As usual, Tarack stopped to gaze in awe at its might, before he ran down the hill towards the lake, shouting all the way down.

"Soan! Look over here, Soan, I have something really cool to tell you!"

Crouching by the water, poking at it with a short stick, Soan looked around. He was a tiny bit bigger than Tarack, and almost a year older. Soan's hair sat flat on his head, much unlike Tarack's messy ginger locks.

"What is it?" asked Soan, as Tarack reached him. "I hope it's not another story. They're never true."

Tarack bent over double, his small body completely out of breath, and his round face bright red. He shook his head quickly.

"Haha, you don't….have to worry…about that. I promise…this one's the truth.

Soan looked a little more interested, and waved his hands impatiently. "Come on, tell me, Tarack! I want to hear what it is! A secret?"

Tarack nodded desperately, but could barely speak. "It's…My uncle…told me about them…"

"About what?" pressed Soan, and Tarack hurried to reply.

"The Dragon Balls!"

As Tarack said the words, he gave a little squeak of excitement and flopped onto the shore, looking out over the lake. Soan was intrigued, and lightly jabbed his friend in the side.

"What, what are the Dragon Balls? Tell me!"

Tarack smiled wildly. "There are seven of them, all over the world. If you can find all of them, a giant _dragon _appears. And then, you can ask it for a wish, and whatever you want, it'll give you."

Soan nodded eagerly, and he sat next to Tarack. "Wow…anything we want? What would you wish for?"

Tarack laughed. "All of the gold in the world."

Soan laughed too, and for a few minutes the peaceful air was full of the boy's giggling as they bickered over all the things they'd wish for. Everything from food that'll never run out to having amazing powers like the warriors that protected the kingdom from threats.

"No!" said Tarack suddenly, and his face lit up. "I know what to wish for! I'd ask the magic dragon to make me be the king of Slavo. That way I can do whatever I want, and tell people what to do."

"We should _both _be king," replied Soan. They laughed together, when a mighty gust of wind blew across Fowl Lake, sending small waves lapping against the stony shore. The boys shivered.

"It's cold," whined Tarack as the wind assaulted him. And then Soan frowned. Because before now, the day had been hot under the Havien sun. And it was the middle of the really hot season.

But now, all of a sudden, it was freezing, and getting colder.

"This is weird," said Soan warily, as a cloud covered the sun, casting the lake under a faint shadow. As it did so, the air grew even more chilly, and the boys clutched together for warmth. "I'm scared."

A gust of wind screamed from across the water and blasted into them, knocking the boys right off their feet. Tarack whimpered as he scraped his elbow along a sharp stone, and a drop of blood ran down his arm.

"Ow. Soan, I'm hurt."

Soan wasn't listening, but was cowering as he looked around him. The cloud over the sun was growing thicker and thicker, and the air was getting darker.

And then all hell broke loose.

With a tremendous crashing, the lake swirled into a maelstrom, the peaceful surface tearing and ripping into a terrifying whirlpool. Tarack screamed, and Soan tried to drag him away. But the boy would not move.

"Tarack!" shouted Soan, tugging on his arm. "Come on, let's go!"

Tarack's flaming orange hair blew in the wind, his curly fringe buffeting against his forehead. And below, his eyes stared like blank crystal balls out over the lake, transfixed. His mouth hung open dully, and his limbs froze.

Soan tried hitting him, but it had no effect at all. Tarack was petrified, like he was turned to stone.

And then, from within the vengeful wrath of the maelstrom, a wisp of black-purple smoke bellowed into the sky and hung there, swirling around in the powerful gust. More of the stuff followed, and it began to thicken, until it resembled a sort of spider-web, hissing around in the air above the whirlpool.

"Tarack!"

There was a crack of thunder so loud it almost burst Soan's eardrums, and he fell over, clutching at his ears with his eyes squeezed shut. And then, Tarack's mouth opened as wide as it would go and a dreadful scream tore from his throat. His eyes were ablaze with fear, but the Slavoan boy couldn't move, frozen in place.

_DRAGON…BALLS…_

The voice came like a deadly whisper, a deep tone that hinted at something beyond nature. Something evil.

And then, the dark substance flying around the lake went against the wind and was sucked towards Tarack in a stream of vile energy. It clung to his face and forced itself into every hole, trickling down his throat and into his ears. The boy's screams were cut off as his mouth was filled, bulging down his windpipe and into his body. It was everywhere. The substance felt horrible against his throat and in his ears, and up his nose, and was ice cold.

"Tarack!" shrieked Soan from the ground. The helpless boy raised an arm feebly to his endangered friend, but was scared out of his wits by what was happening.

Tarack's chest bulged, his eyes bugging out, but then his lids drooped and he lost all expression, blindly allowing the liquid to assault his body and mind. As the last of it disappeared into him, he just dropped to the ground like a stone, and moved no more.

And everything stopped. The lake settled within seconds, and the heavy gusts of wind slowed until it was a fine breeze. And the sun came out again, the thick cloud just disappearing into the air.

"Tarack!"

Soan scrambled over to his friend, who was as still as the dead. The boy lay on his back, arms spread wide, his eyes as cold and lifeless as a dull rock on the mountain above. Soan shook him, shouting his name, but there was no response.

Soan fell silent, tears brimming in his eyes. This was his fault. Why hadn't he run and gotten help? A tear rolled down his cheek, splashing down against Tarack's forehead.

It happened faster than Soan registered. Tarack's eyes flared suddenly, and red cracks shot through the blue pupil of his eye, before turning deepest black. And then, his arm moved like a snake, lashing upwards. Tarack closed his fingers around Soan's windpipe, tightening savagely.

The boy let out a strangled gasp, but Tarack didn't let up, staring at Soan with cold indifference as he slowly squeezed the fear out of his friend's eyes. Soan tugged madly at Tarack's arm, attempting in vain to pull the crushing grip away, but it was fruitless, and a minute later Soan's arms hung lifelessly, eyes dead and blank. Tarack chuckled cruelly, his now black pupils shrinking insanely as he stared upon his friend's dead body.

The Slavoan stood, climbing to his feet with one hand and holding up Soan's body with the other. The corpse's feet dragged along the pebbles of the lake shore, his head slumping back.

"That…felt good," murmured Tarack, but the voice coming from his throat was not his own. It was ancient and terrible. With a flick of his wrist, he sent Soan's body like a limp ragdoll through the air, splashing down into the centre of Fowl Lake and sinking like a stone. The boy was dead. He was eight years old.

Tarack watched his friend disappear beneath the surface, completely indifferent. He had felt nothing, killing his companion. Only a sadistic streak of pleasure.

But then, slowly, his black eyes lightened, colour seeping back into the pupils. Tarack gasped and fell to his knees, and vomited onto the shore. When he looked back up again, he was back to normal. Just a frightened little child with a scraped elbow.

He looked around, wondering dimly where Soan had gone. The last he could remember, they'd been laughing about the Dragon Balls. Shaking violently, Tarack turned and ran up the hill. He wanted to go home.

Behind him, silence fell over the lake, and there wasn't a single sign of what had happened. And below the small waves, a small limp bundle hit the bottom of Fowl Lake. Two blank eyes stared up at the surface, but they would never again see the light of day.

**000**

_Clink…clink...clink…_

Heads turned as the man was dragged up the stone stairs and through the stone halls of Castle Slavo. Flanking him were two weary looking guards, each holding a heavy chain. The chains ran between them and snaked around the wrists of the man, fixing his arms behind his back.

The man – known as Derci – sneered at the watchers, walking with his head held high in the air. His silvery-blonde hair hung neatly around his face and down his neck.

"You know," he spat at the guard to his right. "These chains are a little unnecessary. You've found me out, I'm hardly gonna run off. Nowhere to run off to, is there?"

"Shut it," snapped back the guard, as they turned a corner. "Just be quiet. We're nearly there."

"So looking forward to gracing the presence of our noble king," muttered Derci, and was rewarded with a light blow to the side of the head.

As the guards dragged their reluctant prisoner around the final corner, they emerged into the grand throne room. High viewing platforms were around the room, accessible by staircases on either side of the arch leading into the chamber. At the far end was the throne, currently vacant.

"Oh great, he's not even here…"

_CRACK!_

The two guards marched Derci forward until they stood in front of the throne, and forced him to his knees.

"Don't speak or move," warned the guard on Derci's left. The man rolled his eyes, but acquiesced.

They waited for a few minutes before King Kentus entered, flanked by two men just like Derci was. Only, the king's hands weren't bound by chains. Derci scowled.

"Stop that," murmured one of the guards angrily, and Derci forced his face to remain straight.

Kentus lowered his body onto the throne and looked sadly at Derci. He was heavily muscled, forgoing the traditional royal garb in favour of the leather armour of the kingdom that each and every guard wore. Most civilians thought it made him humble. Derci thought it made him look weak.

The king was clean-shaven except for a ring of beard that ran from his sideburns to under his chin, like a strap of hair framing his face. Kentus' hair was brown and wavy, held in place by a single band. He was tall and powerful-looking, and many considered him among one of the greatest rulers of the kingdom.

"Derci Morimor," intoned the man on Kentus' left. "As a former merchant of the citadel, you've been found selling information to the Norr Tribe. Under the laws of Slavo, this qualifies as treason. What do you have to say in your own defence?"

"What is this, a court?" spat Derci. He glared at the man, a tall blonde-headed warrior. He had a broadsword on his back and several knives hung from his belt. The blades shone. "I'm not on trial here. Under your own laws, Geani, I cannot be tried outside of a courtroom except under extreme circumstances."

"These _are _extreme circumstances," shot back the swordsman, Geani. "We're at war with the very clan you betrayed us to, and organising a court and a trial costs time and money that we cannot afford. Not only that, we have completely solid evidence that you _are _guilty, rendering a trial rather unnecessary. You haven't exactly denied what you're being accused of."

"Calm down, Geani," sighed Kentus, and Geani silenced immediately, glaring at Derci. "I am sorry, Derci, but I have no choice. Under the crime you have committed, I must condemn you to the cells."

Derci just rolled his eyes. His chains jangled quietly as he twisted his hands behind his back. "Go on then, King. Do your duty and send me to jail like a good boy, you're doing the kingdom a favour, I'm sure."

"_Be quiet_!" shouted Geani, but Derci ignored him. Kentus' eyes drooped for a second, but then he regained his composure.

"These are trying times," he said. "I don't believe that you were completely in control of your actions when you betrayed us to the Norr. They thrive on charisma."

Derci just chuckled. "Oh no, good King. My actions were completely my own." And as he finished speaking, the chains locking his arms behind him slipped to the floor in a bundle, clinking against the stone floor. For a second, everyone stared at them, and then at Derci, who flashed a sly grin.

"Whoopsie," he said, and launched forward, slipping a knife from a hidden pocket. Kentus didn't flinch, just signalled to Geani. Like a shadow, he moved forward to protect his king.

Derci raised his knife and came within two metres of Kentus, screaming a torrent of threats and incoherent words, which were cut off quite suddenly as Geani moved in. The swordsman flicked his own dagger expertly, intercepting Derci's and wrenching it from his fingers, before moving in and sinking the steel into the traitor's stomach.

Derci gaped soundlessly, his mouth hanging open. A strangled gasp escaped, and his eyes flickered down to his belly, staring in disbelief at Geani's knife.

"Y-y-y-y-yo-you-you…"

Derci's eyes slowly rolled into his head and he dropped heavily to his knees. A trickle of blood escaped from the corner of his mouth, running down the man's chin until it dripped onto the floor, joining the blood from the wound in his stomach. Then the light faded from Derci's eyes and he slumped to the ground.

Geani looked down at him in disgust, before gesturing to the guards to take the man away. Kentus was still silent, watching sorrowfully as Derci was dragged from the hall, held between the two guards who had brought him in. Geani looked at him.

"My Lord?"

"He was a good man," murmured the king sombrely.

"With all due respect, sir, you are a _terrible _judge of character," replied Geani blandly. "He was a liar and a scoundrel. He deserved exactly what he got."

Kentus grimaced slightly. "You know how to be perfectly blunt, don't you? Come."

The king stood and strode from the hall, Geani alongside. Slightly behind them walked the third man, who had been completely silent up until now. He was tall and shrivelled, an old man, and held a staff to support his weight upon. A cream-coloured robe covered his entire body, stretching from neck to feet. Underneath, flashes of purple cloth were visible.

"The Norr are on the move," he breathed, his frail voice withered and quiet. "This war is balanced in our favour, but they have many spies in our ranks and it is devilishly hard to place our own in theirs. I can sense a great evil."

Geani glanced at the king. The old man was Talon, a mystic, and the most skilled spellweaver in the kingdom. Gifted with premonitions and a sharp mind, if he could sense a threat, it was one worth watching out for.

"What can you see?" asked Kentus quietly, but Talon could not answer. It was only a sense. As the old man returned to his chambers for meditation, Geani looked at the king. Lines of worry dwelled around Kentus' temples and eyes.

"How fares the General?" the king asked.

"We received word just this morning. Mataro and his men have reached Musta. They plan to begin the assault tonight."

"Good. The sooner that city is free of Norr control the better."

Geani nodded seriously, and the two turned a corner. The stone walls of the castle were beautifully sculpted, arches and pillars decorating its halls. Even in these confined passageways, the ceilings were high and arched. Castlemaids and noblemen nodded in deference to the king as he passed, but Kentus responded in kind to each and every one of them.

"Do you think, sir," said Geani suddenly, as Kentus left the halls and emerged into the great natural courtyard in the exact centre of the castle, "that the Norr are getting ready to launch a final assault? After all, the war has been very taxing on them and they're getting desperate. Assassins like Derci _must_ be a sign of that."

"The war's been taxing on us as well," replied Kentus thoughtfully, looking out over the stone fountain in the centre of the courtyard. The sun shined on the great tree behind it, the red of the fruits that grew on it standing out against the green leaves. "But I can see your logic. It's only a matter of time before that traitor, Lord Kayne, begins the siege of Slavo. The Norr have great numbers, and with their alliance with the Prion, they pose even more of a threat. But we will win. We _must _win. Slavo is our great nation, and as long as I am king it will not fall to traitors such as Kayne."

**000**

"Ow, it stings!" whimpered Tarack, and he screwed up his young face until it looked like he was about to cry. His arm was bent backwards over his shoulder, showing off the large scrape on his elbow. Tarack yelped again as his mother gently dabbed another blot of paste onto the wound.

"I'm sorry," she hushed. "It might hurt a little, but you know that it'll make you better, don't you?"

Tarack nodded and bit his lip, screwing up his eyes. His mother, Bridget, smiled warmly at him and ruffled his ginger hair.

"Nearly finished."

Tarack nodded slowly, holding as still as he could. There was a small giggle from the doorway as his little sister skipped into the room, laughing at him. Linke was only a few months younger than him, but liked to think that she was a lot older.

"You're such a wuss, Tarry!" she taunted, and climbed onto the table next to him, perching her bum alongside his. Tarack frowned and looked away.

"No, I'm not," he said stubbornly, and folded his arms. Bridget shook her head.

"Come here, silly. How can I fix you up if you're arms are all tucked away like that?" Tarack allowed her to take his arms, feeling comfortable in her impossibly gentle grip. In silence, she wrapped a light but strong bandage around his arm, covering the paste and sealing it in.

"There we go," she said. "All done."

Tarack smiled, his blue eyes delighted. "Thanks, Mum," he said, giving her a quick hug, before sliding off the table and landing on the ground. Linke followed him, and the two siblings grinned at each other.

"You two run along and play a little," said Bridget wearily, sitting down herself, and Tarack reached over and touched Linke on the shoulder.

"Tag, you're it!" he declared, and then bolted from the house, Linke in hot pursuit. Their home was small, with only three rooms in total, but so were all the houses in their village. Fowledge – named in honour of the giant mountain a few kilometres to the East - wasn't a rich town, but the villagers lived easily on their own crops and ran their own stores. Technically, it was part of the kingdom, but interaction with any of the other towns or cities was rare, and the village council had also declined the offer of a small regiment of guards from the kingdom's fighters. They didn't need them.

Tarack laughed loudly as he jogged through the wonky streets, Linke close behind. He could hear her panting slightly as she ran. Normally, he was a lot faster than her, but he always ran slow to give her a chance. Today, he barely had to slow down at all; his arm was _already _making him sluggish. It stung as he ran, but the boy pushed aside the pain.

Tarack looked back over his shoulder and laughed again as he watched his sister. She was gaining very slightly on him, her face bright red in exertion. And then…

THUMP!

All of the wind was driven out of Tarack's body as he collided with something, and he rebounded back and stumbled off his feet. The ground was rough and hard, and Tarack screwed up his eyes as his elbow hit the dirt for the second time that day. Linke screeched to a halt right next him, stopping herself from tripping over his outstretched body just in time.

"Are you OK, Tarry?" she huffed, breathless, and Tarack nodded, sitting up and leaning on one hand. Slightly dizzy, he turned to look up at what he'd hit, and went pale.

A tall stranger was standing there, right in the middle of the road. He hadn't been affected by the collision at all, and was staring down at Tarack with burning orange eyes; there were no pupils, irises, or whites. Just three concentric black rings in each eye. His skin was white as paper, and completely smooth and blank. He had not a single blemish.

The sun reflected off a single earring in the man's left ear, a golden orb dangling from his earlobe. His short, jet black hair looked even darker against his pure white skin. He had no eyebrows.

Tarack instinctively tried to shrink away; this man was unsettling. Smirking, the stranger looked lazily down at the boy. As they made eye-contact, he tilted his head in amusement.

"Huh," he said. The stranger's voice was musical and mysterious. "What's up, kid?"

Tarack pushed himself from the ground and took a step back, never once taking his eyes off this strange man. Hurriedly, he shook his head, and Linke did likewise. She inched closer to him, and Tarack took a step so that he was standing in front of her, placing himself between his sister and the man.

"Nothing, mister!" he said quickly. For some reason, he didn't trust himself to say anything more; he was too scared that it would come up as a whisper.

The man just smirked a little more, and strolled closer. Before Tarack could begin to move at all, the man was right in front of him, leaning down so that their faces were level. Tarack froze; two burning orange eyes met his gaze.

"Just a little guy…" muttered the man, grin growing wider. His teeth were a brilliant white, and seemed to be a lot more rounded than they should be. "That's interesting…even more brutal than I remember. _Salvete, felio lalvala. Latraus estanghe._"

Tarack's bottom lip began to quiver; it always did when something he didn't like was happening. "I don't know what you're saying," he stammered, voice rising in pitch.

The man's eyes flashed, and his grin widened. Without breaking gaze with Tarack, he opened his mouth opened and something ancient came forth, a single sentence in an indecipherable language. It was delicate and powerful, each unpronounceable syllable flowing easily into the next.

Tarack went rigid as he heard it, and his eyes clouded and lost focus. And a second later, they changed. Red cracks fired through the whites of his eyes and stabbed into his blue irises, which darkened instantly, turning pitch black. A terrible rage burned for a split second, and Tarack's lips twisted into a dreadful snarl.

The stranger grinned wickedly, and the evil faded. Blue swirled back into Tarack's eyes and they once again became unfocussed, before sharpening a second later, returning to normal. Fear rose in them, and Tarack's bottom lip quivered. A bead of sweat ran down his cheek and hung from his neck, as the stranger straightened back up to his full height and backed away from the two siblings.

"I thought so," he said confidently. "It's been a while, kind of. _Valete. Wydevo Moriti. _See ya, kiddiewinks…"

Without another word, he turned tail and strode away. The stranger's skin began to fade and shift from focus, and suddenly he disappeared with a strange hiss-crack noise, leaving the two children alone in the street.

Tarack blinked, and felt his own cheek. It was dripping in sweat, the skin moist and clammy. His sister clutched suddenly at his arm, and he saw that she was extremely pale.

"Linke," he said weakly, and she looked frightened.

"Who was that creepy guy? What just happened?" she whispered, still terrified, and he shook his head.

"I don't know. Let's go home, alright?"

This was turning out to be a very strange day, Tarack was thinking. First he'd fallen over at the lake and Soan had ran off somewhere without telling him, and now this strange man with orange eyes had shown up out of nowhere and literally vanished.

And what was that blank moment in Tarack's memory? It had just happened, when the man had spoken that weird language…it was like he'd blacked out for a second. As Tarack thought back, he recalled the same thing happening at the lake. A stretch where he couldn't remember anything at all…

Linke tapped him on the shoulder. "You're it," she said.

**000**

The air was dry, and the land was hard beneath one's feet. A dusty wind was almost constantly blowing, sending a gritty wave of loose dirt flying into the eyes of whoever dared to traverse the vast desert. A few kilometres away, the citadel of Musta rose from the sand, more of a fortress than a castle. Surrounding the citadel, domed houses and markets sat sporadically, making up the residential civilian district. An impossibly tall cliff of rocks rose to the sky behind the city, preventing any opposing forces from surrounding it.

Called an advantage, it was one of the main reasons that the city had been built here instead of a few kilometres to the South, where the Mustan River ran through the land, one of the only water sources in the entire desert. Of course, every advantage is also a disadvantage; should someone attack the city, any sort of retreat was extremely difficult. Even if you flew over the cliffs, you'd stand out like a pimple on a pumpkin.

Inside the city's walls, the traitorous Norr tribe had taken over, holding the people of Musta hostage against the Kingdom. Lookouts stationed on the outskirts of the city watched with eagle-eyed accuracy. But there was one threat out there that escaped their notice…

On the banks of the Mustan River, a group of ten men camped, surveying the city from afar. The shade of an enormous overhanging tree helped shield them from the eyes of the watchmen, as well as keeping the sun from burning them alive. It was hot in the desert.

The men formed the King's Elite. Ten soldiers, the best of the best, they were undefeated in combat when they were together. And they were led by the best of them all - Mataro, the King's Army General and one of the most skilled and powerful warriors in the entire Kingdom. Forgoing the traditional Slavoan leather armour that the rest of the army war in favour of a murky green singlet and baggy martial arts trousers, his massive build and impressive muscles were usually enough to win his battles through sheer reputation.

Despite this, the General had sharp eyes and an intelligent mind, known as a genius in martial arts and boasted a complete lack of fear. It was well-reasoned; he hadn't been awarded his position in the King's Army for nothing. Few people in the kingdom would be able to match him in combat. Mataro was a man to be respected.

The General leaned against the tree, staring in concentration at the city. The attack wouldn't begin until after nightfall, but he was already beginning to envisage the battle. The funnest part was re-enacting in real life.

"Looks pretty normal from here, doesn't it?" grunted one of the men. They were all relaxed, lounging around in the sand under the shade of the tree, and a few with their legs in the water of the river. There was no point remaining tense; it would only unnerve them until the fight began several hours later.

The others murmured in assent, and a few laughed, Mataro included. "Looks can be deceiving. I won't lie to you, boys; Kayne wouldn't have left a weak garrison in a city as big as Musta. He'll have tough soldiers waiting, and plenty of them."

"Bah, you worry too much, General!" said Tobar, an enormous dark-skinned man with blonde hair that ran like a mane down to his shoulder blades. He was Mataro's second-in-command, and the two had been companions since childhood.

Mataro shook his head, scoffing. "I've never been worried a day of my life, Tobar, and you know that full well."

The men all laughed. It would be a long wait until the night came, so they all appreciated a bit of humour to keep their spirits up.

Suddenly, one of the men straightened up, his face tightening. A second later, the others felt it as well, and the General twisted his head around to look to the South.

"Well, isn't that interesting," he muttered.

At least a hundred warriors were moving in, less than a kilometre away. They flew in a large group, with their captain out the front leading the way. Mataro narrowed his eyes when he saw the man, recognising him.

"It's Peil, of the Prion," he declared. "What's he doing here?"

"Probably leading reinforcements into the city," replied Tobar, stepping forward and brandishing his fist. "Should we go meet them? It'll make our job easier later on, and I'm just _itching _for something to do."

The others chorused their agreement, and Mataro nodded. "It's a date, then. Tobar, you come with me. The rest of you, wait here until I give the signal. Understood?"

They all grunted, and Mataro and Tobar gently lifted off the ground, hovering up into the air to intercept the enemy. They didn't have to wait long. Peil pulled up in the air when he was twenty yards away, and his men stopped behind him. If the captain was worried, he didn't look it, fixing the General with a confident stare.

"Hello, General!" he called. "Fancy seeing you here!"

"Likewise," replied Mataro. "I'd heard that the Prion had joined the Norr in their rebellion, but this is the first I've actually seen. Such a shame. I actually liked your clan."

Peil took the compliment in his stride. The captain wore his clan's grey vest and arm and leg paddings. One of the Prion's most talented members, he was quite young, having risen through the ranks quite quickly. He had youthful blue eyes and tussled yellow hair.

"We've been planning a coup for quite a time," he replied, "so once the Norr began theirs, we figured that we'd join them. And as I'm sure you've noticed, it's going quite well."

The General shook his head. "Not as well as you'd think. The Norr and the Prion combined are quite formidable, I'll admit. After all, you are two of the five noble clans. But our army still outnumbers yours by thousands."

"For now," countered Peil. "But our influence is strong. In time, the other nobles will join us, and your precious Kingdom will fall. Kayne will take the place of Kentus."

Tobar tilted his head. "And the head of your clan is willing to let the Norr be in charge? I thought that this was just as much your coup as theirs."

Peil shook his head. "The Norr share similar views to ours, and our main goal is to upset the balance of power that is in place now. As long as the Kingdom's power is destroyed, it doesn't matter who ends up in charge."

The General exchanged a glance with Tobar, shrugging and nodding thoughtfully, before turning back to Peil, who snarled with rage.

"Do not mock me!" he hissed. "Our cause is rightful."

"What's your goal here?" demanded the General. "Coming to help your new pals defend the city?"

Peil smiled confidently, his boasting eyes completely lacking fear. _"He's too cocky," _thought Mataro. "_Holy cow, the kid thinks he can do anything..."_

"You catch on quick," chided Peil, and pointed a commanding finger at the two warriors opposing him. "Destroy them."

"Tobar…" invited Mataro, and his second-in-command moved in front of him to combat the four warriors that flew at them.

Two of them came in front, punching savagely. Tobar didn't even flinch, simply twisting above their arms and coming down behind them. The two directly behind moved forward to strike as well, but Tobar used his momentum to get in first, taking both out at once with identical hammers to the throat, catching them in the crook of each elbow. Then, without wasting a second, he swung around one of them like he was on skates and kicked the first two in the backs of their head, knocking them both at once as well.

Peil flinched as four of his men were eliminated in the span of a single second, and gestured, sending five more. Suddenly, the General was there, moving between Tobar and his attackers. His hands moved like shadows and five men fell to the ground far below.

Mataro raised an arm high above his head. "Boys!" he bellowed. "It's playtime!"

There was a roar of pleasure from below, and the King's Elite sprang into action. Peil pointed wildly at the incoming troops.

"Kill them all!" he shrieked, flying backwards to escape from Mataro and Tobar. The captain's one hundred men surged forward around him, but cries of pain and the sound of shattering bones filled the air as the two groups met.

In the thick of the fight, the General was fighting off at least fifteen at once. They came from all directions, but Mataro's superior instincts and reflexes caught them all off guard, the enemy repeatedly being smacked around while their single opponent went untouched.

The General effortlessly dodged an incoming blow and grasped the man's wrist, pulling his arm tight. There was a loud crunch as he mashed his palm into the man's straightened elbow, which splintered like a twig. The Prion fell forwards in the air as the General spun sideways, kicking and taking out three at once as he did so. Not stopping for a single second, he intercepted an attack from behind and rolled over someone's leg before elbowing them in the face.

With not a sweat broken, Mataro glanced at his surroundings and saw another group moving in to strike.

"You can't defeat the Elite!" he shouted, caught up in the glory of the fight. The General's arms came up, palms splayed. "Boom!"

With a sound like a cannon, a beam of pure energy detonated from Mataro's hands and collided with the incoming enemies, blowing the absolute crap out of them. The men screamed as they were blasted through the air, trailing tails of the smoke.

With his surroundings clear for the moment, Mataro glanced around, and his eyes narrowed as he saw Peil a short distance away. The captain had cleared himself from the swarm, watching from outside the battle. He flinched again when he saw that Mataro had noticed him. Two of the Prion converged on the General from behind.

"No!" Peil shouted fearfully as the General swung his arms back without even looking, smashing them both in the throats. As the men dropped to the desert, Mataro flew forwards. "No, leave me alone!"

"Peil!" growled Mataro, and flew straight forward, fist clenched. The captain backpedalled desperately, but somehow managed to block the General's strike, and nipped past him, flying as fast as he could around the battle, Mataro in hot pursuit.

_SWITZCH!_

Peil screamed as Mataro shimmered and moved in front of him, moving too fast for him to keep track of. The captain wildly punched out, but Mataro was gone by the time his fist travelled the distance.

"Where'd you go?" he shrieked, and suddenly something tugged at his leg, pulling him up so that his body was lopsided, hanging horizontally above the sand. Half a second later, the General shimmered back into view above him, twisting to gain momentum before driving his hand into Peil's stomach.

Peil folded under the blow and was propelled to the ground, smashing against the hard compacted sand. The man gasped as every ounce of air in his lungs was forced from his body at once, and his limbs went dead for a few seconds.

Peil's eyes were wide as he struggled to draw in breath, and everything seemed to be going in slow motion. He could see shattered rocks drifting past his face like they were made of clouds, and when he turned his head dimly to look up at the battle raging over his head, it was like they were moving deliberately slowly.

And then everything came rushing back to speed at once as General Mataro hazed through the sky and somersaulted, slamming his leg down onto Peil's chest. The captain was hurricaned into the ground, sinking at least a foot into the rock below. He screamed in agony and a river of blood vomited from his mouth, soaking the sand next to his face.

At least ten ribs broke in an instant. He could feel them fracture under the impact of Mataro's attack, and then a loud crack rang out and his sternum snapped in two. The intensity of Peil's shrieks doubled, and then were cut off in a strangled gasp. The man's eyes bulged and blood poured from the corner of his mouth.

"I can't breathe!" he choked, chest heaving as he struggled to inhale. "_Help me!"_

The General crouched down beside him and looked him in the eye. "Calm down, fool. These hysterics won't make it any easier to survive."

Peil flinched, the imminent threat of death apparent to him. Tears sprang in his eyes and ran down his cheeks, but he made an obvious effort to stop his wild desperation, and was rewarded with a shallow and extremely painful intake of air. It felt like a million needles driving into his lungs, but at least he could breathe.

"There," said the General, and Peil looked at him through a wall of involuntary tears.

"I don't want to die," whispered Peil suddenly, and he gripped Mataro's arm, and then cried in pain as the action sent another jerk of pain through his entire body. "Please…don't let me die."

Mataro didn't answer, but the look in his eye was all Peil needed, and he relaxed slightly. They might be enemies, but they were both still Havien, and were both still Slavoan.

"Take this," said the General, and Peil whimpered, blackness seeping around the edge of his vision, and he couldn't look. Gently, he felt his mouth being opened and a tiny wrinkly object was pushed past his teeth. "Eat it quickly," said Mataro. "Before you lose consciousness."

With his last ounce of strength, Peil bit down. The object was incredibly difficult to masticate, and it tasted awful. But as the captain swallowed, the shadows creeping at the edge of his sight withdrew, and the pain disappeared…

…and then appeared again quite suddenly as his ribs reconnected themselves, the shards of bone joining with several loud crunches. A blinding stab shot through him like a hot knife as a splinter removed itself from his right lung, the wound healing almost instantaneously. Finally, his shattered sternum was repaired, and suddenly long ragged breaths were a dime a dozen.

Peil's panic faded, replaced with a reluctant gratitude. All wounds healed and energy completely restored, he began to sit up.

_CRUNCH!_

Peil was forced back into the sand as a fist mashed into his nose, which splattered like an eggplant. Peil screamed in pain all over again and clutched at his face.

"What?" he yelled thickly. "What was that for?"

Mataro grinned as Peil fell against the dirt, writhing. "Don't forget, you're still one of the bad guys and I still don't like you. Besides, I need you injured so that I know you'll do what I say."

Peil glared at him, his handsome youthful face spoiled by his now-shattered nose. The General laughed airily, and leaned in closer. By now, the battle had been won easily by the King's Elite. Peil's force of one hundred men lay defeated on the sand, and nine men surrounded Peil on all sides, Mataro bringing the total up to ten.

"Now," said the General. "Listen to me, Prion swine. Who's in charge at the fort in Musta?"

Peil was silent, but as Mataro grinned wickedly, he gave in to his fate. "It's Dyun of the Norr. He led in his command a week ago and took over the city, under the orders of Lord Kayne. We were heading in to relieve some of his men, and to deliver an order."

"And that order is…?"

"To hold in the fort and kill any soldiers of the King that came near. We were told to do the same."

Mataro nodded, and sat back, looking at Tobar. "Dyun, huh? I thought it'd be someone like him."

"It makes sense," agreed Tobar. "After all, Kayne can't have a _complete _idiot controlling the fort…"

He glanced meaningfully at Peil, who scowled. "What are you going to do with me now? Kill me?"

The General shook his head." Now why would I do that when I just used up one of our rather scarce Gaman Peas to _save _you? No, I have a rather special job for you. We're going to let you go, and you'll go where we tell you. Go to Musta and tell them that the King's Elite are here to reclaim the city, and that they should prepare for battle to defend against us, for we strike tonight.

"I also want you to explain that any attempt to use the city folk as hostages will be met with extremely quick and painful violence in the kneecaps and/or genital region, leaving the civilian unharmed while the hostage-taker quivers in pain on the floor. Understand?"

Peil's eyes were bulging from beneath his fingers, which he was using to try and stem the blood flow from his broken nose. "Are you _insane?_ You overestimate yourself, General Mataro. You can't win against all of them. One thousand men. One _thousand _men versus the ten of you. It's an impossible venture."

The General flashed his trademark grin again. It never seemed to leave his face. "Well, clearly you don't know us very well. Now get the hell out of here and tell those Norr that we're coming to bust their bloody balls."

**000**

The night came slowly, the sun passing silently and innocently over the desert. The same could definitely not be said for the events in the desert itself; a flurry of activity could be seen in the city of Musta from where the King's Elite were positioned under their overhanging tree by the river. They did not need to prepare for battle; each of them was trained to shift effortlessly into a life-threatening fight at any moment's notice. The soldiers of the Norr that currently inhabited the city quite obviously did not have this ability, as they spent the rest of the afternoon preparing to counter the assault that was set to take place during the darkness of the night.

One thousand men, Peil had said. A Millennium Corp, as they were known in the King's Army. As the largest and most easily joinable clan in the kingdom, the Norr had over forty thousand members, and with the addition of the Prion that figure was bolstered up to almost fifty-five.

Of course, this led to one simple fact; with so many soldiers, it was impossible to train all of them to a level of skill above moderately average. Only a fraction of the members were given superior instruction by a skilled master, and this led to their weakness. In numbers, they excelled. But in terms of skill, this transformed those thousands of soldiers into a bunch of mooks and cannon fodder.

The King's Elite, on the other hand, boasted a tiny membership of ten warriors.

But their skill was legendary.

Their training was absolute.

And their victory was almost certainly assured.

Each had the strength of a hundred men. Ordinary fighters could not hope to match them in combat, and would break upon the Elite like water upon rocks. They would rip through opposition without delay or fear of retribution.

The sun kissed the horizon and darkness fell over the land. Three hours later, the assault would begin. The fort of Musta was lined with men, one thousand troops ready to defend. Opposing them, standing alone in the dirt of the desert before the city, a bare ten men prepared to retake the fort.

"Ready now?" murmured the General, and as one, the Millennium Corp facing them shifted positions, some of them wielding weapons, some bare-fisted and armed only with martial arts. In reply, the King's Elite didn't react to the threat. A yawn here, a bum scratch there. A fart echoed over the sand, followed by a round of manly giggling.

Mataro struggled to hold his straight face. "Attack!"

**000**

_Tarack whimpered in fear and spun around, but was too slow. The tendril of…_something _that had trickled past his elbow had disappeared, leaving him quivering._

_He didn't know where he was, or how he had gotten here. The cracked ground beneath his shifting feet was a deathly grey, as if all the colour had been sucked from the soil. It smelled revolting, putrid, and was damp. Rolling clouds hung heavy in the sky, an ominous red. Occasionally a fork of lightning would shoot from them and strike the ground in the distance, but none came close to Tarack. _

_The boy crouched down and wrapped his skinny arms around his knees, trembling. His eyes were stinging and rubbing them was only making it worse. He felt sick in his stomach._

_There!_

_Tarack screamed and lashed out as he felt something brush past him, invisible. His arm cut through the air, but connected with nothing else. Whatever had touched him had disappeared as quickly as it had come._

_Tarack was frightened. He had no shelter from the elements, and a fierce wind ripped at his bare skin. He was naked, and the lack of clothes only made him feel more vulnerable. Nearby, there was a ramshackle hut made of rotting wood, but he didn't dare go inside. It reeked of evil. At least when he was standing outside nothing could jump out from a corner. From here he could see for miles. He'd see anyone coming._

_Anyone except for the shadow._

_Tarack flinched as he felt it touch him again, and he screwed his eyes shut, spinning on the spot and punching desperately around him. But the vapour had gone once more and even if he could hit it, his spindly arms and pitiful strength probably wouldn't do any damage at all._

"_Go away!" he screamed, and threw his little body into the stained dirt, trying to dig into the compact earth to hide. The stench of the soil was almost overwhelming, the metallic smell almost making him pass out, but he ignored it. _

_The tendril seemed to be leaving him alone for the time being, and he scrabbled away at the ground, pulling clumps of dirt up. It seemed to part for him, a moderate sized hole being dug in mere minutes. With tears streaking down his dirty face, Tarack pulled wildly at the clumps, the tips of his fingers quickly becoming bloody and torn. He sobbed, and forced himself headfirst into the hole he'd dug, pulling his legs into his body to make himself as small as possible. He only just fit._

_With baited breath, crying silently, he waited, hands pressed against his face. The blood from his fingers was drying, and as he breathed in, he could smell the dark liquid on his skin._

_It was metallic, like copper and iron..._

_With a choked gasp, Tarack recoiled, bile rising in his throat. Now he recognised the smell of the land. The very dirt itself smelled of blood. Before he could stop it, a scream rose in his throat and he struggled to climb backwards from the hole, wanting nothing more than to be away from it and the ground._

_The dirt around him was turning wet, and trickles of a rusty coloured liquid were seeping from between the grains. The ground was weeping blood. It surrounded him on all sides, and Tarack doubled his efforts to escape, his shrieks continuous._

_And then, just as he couldn't take it anymore, something grasped at his ankle and tugged violently, ripping Tarack from the hole and hurling him through the air. The wind ripped at his eyes and temporarily blinded him, and then there was the shatter of wood as he slammed into the decrepit wooden hut. His body went numb as the wall broke beneath him, and then he was lying in the dark in a pile of wooden rubble. _

"_Help!" he shouted, but his voice seemed like a whisper. He tried again, but knew that no one would come. He was alone…all alone._

"Give in, boy_!" growled an immaterial voice. It seemed to come from all direction at once, and was deep and ancient_. "Your body and soul are _mine!"_

_And then Tarack screamed, and screamed again. Something that felt like death itself soared at him from outside the hut where he lay, and his eyes were forced shut under its form…_

"Tarack!"

The boy's eyes shot open, and for a brief moment his pupils were blank and dark. He was sweating like mad. It covered him like starch.

He was in his home, under the stone roof. The bed under him was rough and unclean, but he had never given it much thought. That was just the way it was. No one in the village was rich by any standard. A stained and thin mattress on top of a stone slab. Barely a metre away was an identical design. Tarack and Linke shared the room.

"Tarry, wake up!" His sister's voice whispered loudly in his ear again and he sat up, trying to make out his surroundings. Darkness hung like a shroud, the only light being a dying candle. Tarack groaned as he looked at it, feeling sick. The memory of his nightmare was still prominent in his mind, and he was shivering.

"Linke, what are you doing?" he grunted, annoyed. Judging from the length of the candle, it was past midnight. The ginger-haired child finally glanced at his sister, and years of being around her let him know instantly that something was wrong. Linke's eyes were wide and she held her arms across her chest just like she always did when she was scared. He leaned over and grabbed her shoulder. "What is it?"

Her reply came in a high whisper. "There are men," she said. "Outside."

Tarack slid out of bed immediately and hurried past Linke to the kitchen and eating area, where his injured elbow had been healed only that afternoon. Bridget was already there, and she silently pushed him back, finger to her lips.

"_Quiet," _she was trying to tell him. Tarack's mother leaned in close, and whispered barely loud enough for him to hear.

"Go back to Linke. Don't make a sound."

Both of them jumped as there was an ear-splitting bang from beyond the door, and several shouts of laughter were heard. Tarack glanced fearfully at his mother and she gently pushed him away, back towards his room. Linke crouched by the doorway to the bedchamber, whimpering softly. As silently as he could, Tarack looped his arms around her body and pulled her back up, before half dragging and half guiding her back to her bed. The girl sunk onto the thin mattress and curled up, as Tarack turned back to the kitchen and looked back at his mother.

Bridget had taken up a long knife, the one she normally used to prepare meals with. Suddenly it looked less like a simple tool and a lot more like a deadly weapon. The woman held it tentatively, and it was obvious that she was just as terrified as her offspring. As if to deliberately deter her, there were more shouts from outside, and now they could hear the other villagers.

"Who are you people?"

"Leave here now!"

A shaft of firelight was shining into the house from outside, and it was obvious that whoever was causing all of the ruckus held torches of some kind. The shouts increased, growing louder. Tarack heard one voice in particular, cocky and raspy. It spoke arrogantly.

"You don't order me around, old man. I tell _you _what to do! As of now, the Norr officially own this village, understand me?"

The "old man" could only be Spole, the Village Head, thought Tarack. And these men…the Norr. Of course, the people of Fowledge knew of the civil war taking place in the Kingdom, but as a separate town and therefore part of no clan, they had deliberately distanced themselves from it. Until now…

Finding new resolve, Bridget stowed her weapon in her clothes and crossed the room, the torchlight from outside illuminating her left side, leaving the other half in darkness. With a final glance at Tarack and a meaningful shooing gesture, she left the house.

Tarack didn't make a sound, not even to breathe, and backed into the bedroom, dropping down next to Linke. She wriggled closer.

"What's going on? Who are they?" she whimpered, and Tarack shook his head.

"I don't know," was all he could say. The boy was tired and confused, but was confident that Spole and the others would be able to resolve the situation. "Calm down a little, Linke, we'll be fine."

"Oh…thanks Tarry," she breathed, and rested her head on his shoulder. Tarack hugged her closer, and they waited together with baited breath. The older brother was listening intently for the voices outside, but it was hard to make out what was going on. There was still a lot of shouting, but so many people were talking at once that he couldn't tell what they were saying.

At least ten minutes passed, and Linke had fallen asleep on his shoulder. And then, something happened that made Tarack sit bolt upright. Linke slipped from his shoulder and hit his lap, jerking her awake. But her brother had barely even noticed. He was too busy listening.

"Take your hands off me! The King will have your head for thi-"

The voice – Tarack recognised it of Rond, the village's blacksmith - was cut off in a strangled gasp, and at once all of the shouting stopped. In the ensuing silence, broken only by Linke's choked breathing, Tarack's blood froze in his veins as he heard the thud of a body hitting the flagstones on the road outside, and the scraping of a steel sword as it was replaced in its scabbard.

Silence again. And then…

"The King won't have my head, but I'll have yours…"

**000**

Bridget muffled a gasp as Rond collapsed to the ground, bleeding from the horrible wound just below his breastbone. The blacksmith scrabbled at the cobblestones, his strength fading fast.

The scene in the square was split in two; on one side were the villagers of Fowledge. There were about thirty who had come out to protest, Bridget among them. At the front of the assembled crowd was the village head, Spole. His scraggly beard looked wispy under the light of the torches scattered amongst the people.

Opposite stood the "representatives" of the Norr; five men, all muscular and huge, armed with a range of weapons. The leader, a sneering thug with missing front teeth and a large burn on his cheek stepped forward and tugged his sword from Rond's chest, wiping the blade on the blacksmith's shirt.

Rond hacked and gobs of blood splattered against the ground, but that was nothing compared to his front, which was completely covered. Instinctively, Bridget rushed forward to help him, but stopped dead as she found the tip of a sword an inch from her face.

"Stop this," rumbled Spole angrily. "How dare you come here and attack us like this? What do you want?"

"Yeah!" shouted Koni, the village's strongest man. He brandished a pitchfork, its triple prongs catching the torchlight. "We've had enough! You can just get the hell out of here! Take your damned uprising somewhere else!"

"Who are you, anyway?" shouted someone in the middle of the crowd. More and more people were beginning to arrive as they heard the commotion, and there were several gasps as people laid their eyes on Rond quivering on the cobblestones.

The Norr men had a round of laughs among themselves, and one of them cracked the handle of his double-headed axe on the ground loudly. He was the largest of the group, at least six and half foot tall with squinty little eyes that stared in different directions.

"This village is so small," he blared, "I could take it down all by myself."

"We need more members," grinned the leader. "Or slaves, we're not picky. Lord Kayne told us to find some, so that's what we're doing."

"Rond…" whispered Bridget urgently, and inched forward again. This time, the leader lowered his sword and let her kneel down by Rond's side, examining the wound. It didn't look good at all; the blacksmith had already lost a lot of blood. It'd take a lot of healing and a _lot _more luck to keep him alive.

Spole hollered for Hana, the village's resident healer, and the woman stumbled forward, dropping down beside Bridget.

"Hold him still," Hana said hurriedly and held her hands over the man's face. Green light shone from her palms and Rond's blank eyes began to droop, closing slowly. "There. I've put him into a deep sleep. It'll slow down his metabolism and keep him alive a little longer."

The leader of the Norr party cackled. "Go ahead, try and heal him if you want. Even if he _does _recover, he'll only live the rest of his life as a slave."

He looked at the villagers and was answered by a sea of hateful glares. Fowledge was extremely close-knit; an attack on one person was an attack on all.

As Hana and Bridget moved Rond aside, helped by a few of the other villagers, Koni muscled his way to the front of the crowd, pitchfork raised. His voice was venomous.

"Just try and take anyone here," he growled, "and we'll all fight back. You'll have to kill us all before we give in to you, understand, asshole?"

Koni wasn't alone. There were several shouts of assent from within the throng of villagers, most of whom had spent their lives farming or building. They weren't weaklings.

But the Norr were trained killers.

"Bring it," jeered the leader.

With a furious cry, Koni charged forward, thrusting his pitchfork directly at the man. The Norr flicked his sword almost lazily, effortlessly catching the pitchfork and deflecting it to the side. As Koni stumbled, grunting, and the leader spun, smashing the pommel of his sword into the side of Koni's head.

There was a sickening crunch and Koni began to fall to his knees, but the Norr wasn't done yet. In a heartbeat, he snatched the pronged spear from Koni's hand and flipped into the air, sinking all three deadly points into Koni's back before landing deftly on one knee, head bowed.

"Is that all you can do?" he said quietly. "I expected more."

Koni slumped to the ground, a snarl on his face, but then the light faded from his eyes and he was gone.

Spole's old face slackened as he beheld the casual murder. "You beast..."

The man straightened to his full height, smiling cruelly. "You've had your warning. So what are ya gonna do? Submit and become slaves? Or fight and become slaves, only with about half of you dead?"

Spole could barely pause to take in a breath before there was a rush of footsteps from behind him. He turned, eyes widening.

"No, _stop!"_

"I'll kill you bastards!" roared the charging man, Ron the butcher. He whipped up the giant meat cleaver that always hung from his belt and took a swing at the Norr to the left of the leader. The Norr ducked easily undr the blow and struck Ron in the neck, stunning him. A second later, the massive man with the axe stepped up and buried one of its blades in Ron's side. Even though he only held the weapon in one hand, and still almost cut the butcher in half.

The leader grinned savagely, whipping his sword around and pointing it at the gathered villages. "Looks like your decision was made for you, eh old man? Let's have some fun, boys!"

The other four Norr surged forward, and despite Spole's protestant cries, the villager's rushed to meet them. Almost immediately, it was clear who the victors would be; the Norr shrugged off the villager's attacks like flies, retaliating in kind with much more force. Within seconds, the residents of Fowledge broke ranks, running screaming for places to hide. Several were beaten down into unconsciousness before they could make ten steps.

In the commotion, Bridget emerged from a nearby house, having left the dying Rond inside with Hana. She gaped at the scene; all over the square, villager's had fallen, either dead or knocked out. The entire battle was already fizzling out after less than a minute.

In the middle of it all stood the leader of the intruders, who'd stood back to watch the show. Joined by two of his squad members, he pointed at the houses on either side of the square.

"Search inside," he commanded. "These can't be all the people in this wretched hole. We're not leaving until every house has been searched, do you hear me?"

The two Norr nodded, and strode together towards the nearest house to them. Bridget's blood pounded in her ears as she saw that it was hers.

"_Linke and Tarry!"_

Motherly instinct kicked in like some sort of turbo. She would not let them harm her children. Bridget broke from the shelter of the doorway and sprinted as fast as her legs could carry her across the cobblestones of the square.

"Leave them alone, you twisted bastards!" she shrieked, and pulled back her arm. The knife that she'd hidden up her sleeve was clenched tightly between her fingers as she raised it over her shoulder.

The light of dropped torches flashed from the silver blade as it left her hand and spun across the remaining distance, on a direct course for one of the men so close to her children. He turned as she screamed, saw the knife coming ever so closer…

_SWINCHK!_

Bridget coughed and stopped running, eyes wide and staring at the man who she'd tried to kill. He stared straight back, smiling eerily.

Slowly, Bridget lowered her chin and gazed at the blade buried up to the hilt in her own chest. Her fingers grasped at the handgrip for a few seconds before her strength faded and the woman dropped against the hard cobblestones.

The last thing she saw before everything went black was two murderers stalking into her house.

"…_Linke…Tarry…."_

**000**

"Prepare to defend!"

One thousand men marshalled in Musta as the King's Elite soared towards the city, flying abreast. Positioned in the centre of the line, Mataro glanced over the fort, taking in every detail in a second.

"You know what to do, boys! Don't let a single civilian die, you hear me?"

The others answered as one, and the General took the lead, moving in front of the others as they beared down on the outer wall. Norr warriors waited on top, watching the Elite growing close. In an instant, Mataro cast his ki out, feeling for energy. Once he was absolutely certain that there were no innocents inside the rampart, he shimmered and disappeared.

A second later, he reappeared on top of the wall behind the line of men, catching each and every one of them by surprise. As they spun to face him, the General didn't waste any time playing games. He pulled back his arm, focussing as much energy as he could muster into his fist before slamming it down onto the stone beneath his feet.

"_Heaven's Hammer!"_

There was a sound like a thousand rolls of thunder as the stone of the outer wall cracked and broke, and a cloud of blinding dust exploded into the night sky. And inside the cloud the wall collapsed in on itself, groaning and falling to the ground beyond. Stone smashed and sand crashed, the rubble caking the street behind. The guard towers every few hundred feet imploded under the pressure, the tall stone towers toppling over like enormous dominos.

Norr warriors fell with the rampart, screaming as they were crushed between layers of broken stone. More followed, as the wave of destruction followed the rest of wall, several kilometres long. At least one hundred and fifty men had fallen in this initial attack, and great echoes of shock rang across the city as the rest of the Norr saw the extent of the damage.

"Attack!" bellowed Mataro, descending quickly to the ground and leaning against a piece of rubble. Above, the rest of his men entered the city threw the brand new stretch of ruin where the wall had used to be.

Despite reinforcing himself with ki, Mataro's hand had still been split open by the blow to the wall. The General gripped at his wrist as he examined the injury; most people might be in pain, but whenever that feeling came knocking at Mataro's door, he kicked it in the face and told it to piss off. He'd never had an injury that he couldn't shake off, at least so far. He just refused to sit out.

Someone emerged from the dust above him and then Tobar had landed. "General, are you OK?"

Mataro nodded. "Of course I am. What's the situation up there?"

"We've engaged the Norr," answered Tobar. "You shook their morale with that Heaven's Hammer, but we still have to take the fort. A lot of them have withdrawn inside, and I bet that Dyun is there too."

Mataro nodded in agreement. "I think you're right. I'll take Dyun; the rest of you focus on the riff-raff."

"Yes, General."

Mataro straightened back up, flexing his fingers. They seemed to be working fine still. It was time to re-enter the battle. Before he could move, three more figures emerged from the dust behind Tobar. The big man heard them coming and dropped, swinging his leg out behind him and tripping the first one over.

As the man collapsed into the rubble, his head cracking against the stone, Tobar finished off the other two men with twin punches. Mataro clapped him on the back.

"Good job, my friend. Now, let us go!"

Ki pulsed at his feet and the General lifted from the ground, arms extended on either side for balance. This also meant that he was ready to counter an attack from either side. Buildings rushed by on either side as he tore down the darkened streets towards the huge fort, zooming past the cluster of houses and emporiums of the town. In other parts of Musta, great skirmishes were taking place, the few hundred men who hadn't fled to the fort moving en-masse to attack the intruders. You almost had to feel sorry for them.

Suddenly, a glint caught in the corner of the General's eye, and Mataro pulled himself backwards, narrowly dodging a jagged curved blade. It slashed at nothing, before its owner - a scrawny man with greasy hair – flicked his wrist to cancel his next swing. The man nervously changed his grip so that he was holding the rusty sword in two hands, pointing the tip at Mataro, who beckoned.

The Norr stabbed clumsily out with his sword and Mataro easily deflected it with his bare hand, pushing at the flat of the blade. A quick blow to the temple and the greasy-haired man was out, falling to the ground without a sound.

Mataro straightened up to his full height and turned his gaze to the top of the fort. It was a perfect cylinder, made of stone. Windows were cut into it every few metres, both horizontally and vertically. The top of the fort was flat, with a chest height wall running around the circumference to protect those who stood behind. Mataro closed his eyes and focussed; Tobar had been right. A good majority of the Norr had fallen back into the fort as soon as the wall had been destroyed.

Mataro grinned his flashy white grin, the moonlight reflecting off those pearly tombstones, and started for the tower. On the way, he effortlessly dispatched no less than thirty-two men.

**000**

The sounds of the battle rang over the city, clashes of steel carrying on the night breeze, even reaching all the way to the top of the fort. Dyun grimaced fiercely and stalked to the edge of the roof, poking his head over the edge and glancing over the city. His men were falling like flies.

"Sir Dyun! What should we do?"

Dyun closed his eyes in annoyance as he heard the clutter of footsteps up the sandstone staircase. He turned angrily and pointed fiercely at the newcomer.

"Shut up, Peil! You're not helping."

The blond captain closed his mouth reluctantly. His nose was bent and flecks of blood still clung to the skin around his mouth.

Dyun turned back to the parapets, his razor sharp eyes flickering over the city yet again. He was almost unnaturally tall, and like Peil wore the traditional leather armour of the Slavoans. A long fringe hung down the left side of his face, mirroring the cape that hung from the opposite shoulder.

Trained personally by Lord Kayne, Dyun was one of the few warriors in the Kingdom on the same level as the King's Elite. But even he wouldn't stand a chance against all of them. The Norr went through all of his options in his head, and found himself going in circles.

"Sir?" said Peil slowly, taking a step forward.

Dyun twisted his head and looked at him. He was snarling. "Get back down there and tell those cowards to go fight!"

"They won't, Sir Dyun," replied Peil hesitantly, and Dyun froze, his expression thunderous.

"What do you mean, they won't?"

Peil began to reply, but Dyun cut him off with a hand gesture, which then turned into a beckon. "Come here, Captain."

The blond looked startled, and stumbled forward. For all his confidence earlier before his beatdown at the hands of Mataro, he was scared now once he knew how outclassed he was.

When Peil came within arm's reach, Dyun backhanded him across the face without even a blink. Peil shouted in pain and put a hand to his cheek, which was flaming red. Dyun poked his face forward.

"Perhaps you'd like to explain to me, Captain Peil, how we plan to overthrow the Kingdom and raise Lord Kayne to power if we can't even defeat a force of ten men? This is a revolution! Once Kentus is dead and the Kingdom crushed, we'll live a life of luxury over the regular people. Don't you see, Captain, the opportunity you've been presented? You'll be elevated with the rest of us, but that won't come without a price. Now tell those swine to get out and fight, and while you're at it, you can go too."

Peil flinched even more than when he'd been struck. "Me? Fighting out there against Mataro? I'll be killed!"

The sounds of the battle were getting closer as the King's Elite moved across the city. Dyun spat on the ground and turned back to the wall, watching as the scuffle grew closer.

"I don't care, Peil. You'll no doubt fare better than the others. You are a Captain after all."

Peil just stood silently, his mouth slightly open and eyes wide with fear. He was way out of his debt here; Kayne had promised the Prion power, but Peil doubted that any of them had expected something like this.

Suddenly, Dyun stiffened, and that's when it happened. A very large, very muscular shape burst over the edge of the wall, a meaty fist already on its way. And like a shadow, Dyun dodged, leaning right over backwards as if he were a limbo artist. Peil had about a millisecond to appreciate the Norr's reflexes before he realised that he was still standing right behind Dyun. The fist hit him.

For the second time that day, Peil's nose shattered under General Mataro's fingers, and he was blown right off his feet, sailing like a rag-doll through the air before colliding with the wall on the other side of the fort. Peil's eyes rolled into his head and his chin dropped, completely unconscious.

"_Bugger," _was the last thing he though before everything went black.

Meanwhile, Mataro landed on one hand, using his momentum to flip around and bring himself back to his feet. Just in time.

Like blades from hell, Dyun had instantly drawn four stiletto knives from under his cape, two in each hand. The razor sharp blades glinted under the moonlight. Without even hesitating, Dyun raised them over his shoulder and hurled them at Mataro, who instantly threw his body to the side. Even so, one of them hit, slicing into his forearm as it flashed past him. A spurt of blood sprayed the air and Mataro landed awkwardly. The General examined the wound; it wasn't overly deep, but blood ran down his arm and was staining his favourite green singlet and martial arts pants.

He glanced up and spotted Dyun, who was poised in a bizarre defensive stance that for some reason involved wiggling his fingers like an idiot. It detracted from his former menace.

"Hi," said Mataro. "We made it."

Dyun tilted his head and stopped wiggling. "Go home, General. Or better yet, surrender to the Norr now, you cannot defeat me _or _Lord Kayne."

Mataro thought for a second. "See, that's not exactly right. That traitorous bastard Kayne might be out of my league, but he's out of yours too. You talk big, but I could pound you like a sack of potatoes."

Dyun smirked, and drew two wicked-looking sai knives from under his cape. "Then prove it, big man. A fight to the death."

**000**

OMG, this has taken me so goddamn long to get done. I keep on just doing about 1000 words a week or something, including the work on the main series. Sorry it's taken so long.

Anyway, so part 1's finished. Only 3 more to go…this might take a while. Future parts probably won't be as long as this one – maybe only around the 10,000 word mark per part.

So, how'd you all like it? Be sure to leave a review, because I really like hearing your opinions. Tell me which bits you like, which bits you don't like, where I could improve, etc.

See you next chapter ;)


	2. Part 2: The Hammerstroke

**Dragon Ball X**

**Kingdom Crushed**

Part 2 of Kingdom Crushed, in which a bunch of interesting events occur. Read on to find out what they are.

But before that, a little announcement. The OVA…..*draws in massive, massive breath* is being extended to 5 parts instead of 4. I was up to 8000 words and was barely halfway through what I'd planned for the chapter, so I'm splitting it in two. That will also let me expand more in part 3. Huzzah!

On a side note, I'm deviating a little here to advertise a little, as well as gush. I saw the Rebuild of Evangelion films recently, and I have to say that they are absolute _masterpieces. _The animation is flawless; it has so much depth, it's like you're literally in the frickin' movie. I almost passed out in 2.0 when the Evas battled Sahaquiel, the CGI of the Angel gave it such an alien feel. And then came my favourite shot in any film, TV show, or animated work I've ever seen, where Eva 01 runs past a parking lot and the shockwaves blow every car away. It was incredible.

You know what else I saw? The Dark Knight Rises. HOLY CRAP, IT WAS AWESOME!

Anyways…on with the chapter!

**000**

Like a thousand arrows of silver, the light of the moon poured over the desert, highlighting the sand through the cracks in the clouds that hung against the black night sky. Under one of the many insignificant stones that littered the landscape, a small spotted lizard crawled across the dirt, its dry skin scratching the sand.

Somewhere, the sound of a hunting scavenger bird echoed across the open empty plains, and the lizard turned in a flash, retreating back under the cover provided by its flat stone. The reptile usually enjoyed lazing upon the warm surface of the rock during the daytime, when the burning sun attacked the ground, but during the night every second was a fight for survival. Wild beasts that preyed on the lizard's brethren, the biting chill of the black air, and above all, the call of the dreaded Sand Condor, an animal all reptiles feared.

Unlike normal condors, which fed mostly on carrion, the Sand Condor was an extreme omnivore, eating anything it could get its powerful bone-crushing talons around. They were also much larger than any normal birds, with an absolutely monstrous wingspan of twenty-two feet. And yet, completely silent. A Sand Condor could fly behind you and snatch you up without you even registering its presence. Even the Haviens, with all of the weaponry like swords and spears feared the Sand Condors. It could take up to five men to kill a single bird.

And they tended to travel in packs.

The lizard flickered its tongue and tasted the air. Its unblinking eyes stared emotionlessly out from the cover of its rock as it watched the sand, waiting for movement, any movement. The lizard's tongue lashed faster as it thought of food. A lizard's gotta eat, after all.

There! Forcing its way out the sand a few metres away! The lizard scurried forward like a dart and pounced on the scarab beetle before it had the chance to disappear again. The reptile's used its feet to help push the beetle into its mouth, throwing back its head and swallowing it whole. A bulge forced its way down the lizard's neck as the beetle began the awful journey to the stomach.

Satisfied with its dinner, the lizard sat in the sand out in the open, spending just a few minutes in some comfort before retreating back to the rock where it was safe. Its tongue flickered again, and the lizard turned its head to the West, where the big Haviens lived in their city of Musta. On the air, distant sounds echoed through the desert. Clanging, and shouting. Something was happening in the city, the lizard realised dully, and stared across the flat rocky ground to where the distant shape of Musta rose into the sky.

And thus, it didn't even notice as a great shadow glided soundlessly from behind, talons bared. The next thing it knew…_pluck!_

The Sand Condor flapped its wings to gain height, arcing through the sky with its meals clamped tightly between its toes. The lizard would make a miserable meal, but the night was for hunting, after all. Plenty more catches to find before the dawn broke.

The moon shone on the flat rock that was now devoid of a tenant. A dusty breeze blew, and then the only sounds in the desert were those of clanging and shouting in the West.

**000**

Dyun's twin blades were clenched tightly between his fingers. The pronged sai knives looked deadly in anyone's hands, but someone of Dyun's calibre would wield them with frightening efficiency. Mataro stared him in the eye, poised in a defensive position. This would not be as easy as the rest of the mooks.

"A fight to the death? Do you really want to die so much?"

"Shut it!" snapped Dyun, and made a movement as if to suddenly attack, but stopped himself. The two circled each other, taking slow deliberate steps maintaining a constant circumference. "I meant that _you _would be the one who will die."

"Have it your way, then," replied Mataro, shifting his weight. The man's massive fist rushed towards Dyun's face like a blur, the muscles rippling under the skin. But the blow never landed. Dyun bent straight over backwards and avoided Mataro's punch, landing like a crab on all fours on his back.

"Sorry, General!" he quipped, and kicked off from the ground with his feet and performing a handstand before following through and landing in a crouch, sai knives still in hands.

Mataro was caught off-guard at the ease of the manoeuvre and moved back into defence. Just in time; Dyun fazed forward and lunged out with both of his swords, stabbing for the General's stomach.

"_Crap!" _thought Mataro, lunging back desperately. He had no weapons of his own, preferring to be unhampered by the extra weight during fights. In addition, Mataro's usual defence of relying on his own speed and dexterity to deflect blades by the flat side wouldn't work against Dyun. Not only was the man simply too fast to reliably avoid, but his weapons were viciously narrow and wicked sharp on both sides, providing almost no safe area to touch. Also, the prongs on the weapons would allow Dyun to stab his fingers when Mataro deflected the blade.

The only way was dodging, and against Dyun it wouldn't be easy at all.

"I'll slit you open," hissed the Norr angrily.

Despite Mataro's rapid backtracking, the very tips caught his stomach and twisted, slashing through his singlet and opening up his belly. The General gritted his teeth as he felt the skin part under the ice cold steel, but he knew it wasn't too serious of a wound. He'd suffered worse. And besides, he had more pressing issues to worry about at the moment, such as the next strike. Dyun screamed and swiped wildly at the air with both hands, one after the other. The knives audibly whistled as they came, and Mataro barely dodged them, deftly hopping away and leaning heavily to the side.

He caught himself with his hands and kicked out, hoping to incapacitate Dyun for a few seconds with a powerful blow, but the man seemed to move without thinking, fading to one side and easily avoiding the blow.

"_His reflexes…"_

The wounds on Mataro's arm and stomach oozed blood with the strenuous movements and he backed up several metres across the roof of the fortress. Dyun followed him warily, sais spinning between his fingers like ninja stars.

"So you'll beat me like a sack of potatoes, will you?" he snarled excitedly, a psychotic smile on his face. "Who's the one bleeding, _huh?!"_

"_He's even more nuts than I thought," _said Mataro in his head, never taking his eyes off his opponent. "_And he's faster than I've ever seen him move before. Kayne must have boosted his reflexes somehow. What devilry is this?"_

"The Norr have never received the respect we deserve!" continued Dyun, drawing ever closer. The knives were still spinning. "Our noble ways make your precious king look like a filthy peasant! _We _should be the ones in charge, not that pathetic dog."

"Funny that," muttered Mataro, "'cause I always thought that Kayne looked a little bit like a pit bull. What do you know?"

"Shut up!" yelled Dyun, eyes opening wide with anger. "Always with the mocking! You can't keep your mouth shut, can you?"

"Well, no…"

Dyun let out an incoherent sort of screech and lurched at his enemy, his twin knives scything through the air like guillotines. Even though he was expecting it Mataro barely managed to dodge at all, somersaulting backwards across the roof. Dyun followed up savagely, spittle flying from his mouth. Mataro barely had a split second to get his bearings before dropping straight over backwards, bending at the knees until he looked like a champion limbo contestant.

"_I can't keep this up much longer," _he thought in an instant. "_If I make one mistake he'll kill me, and I don't particularly fancy seeing my own guts all over the floors. But if I go on the offensive, he'll just get me when I move in close."_

Mataro twisted around and caught himself on his hands before rolling. Behind him, the blade of Dyun's sai slashed at his pants, almost reaching his skin. Mataro grunted and flopped awkwardly, and Dyun's face twisted as he saw his chance…

**000**

Tarack flinched as he was thrown against the wall, his small body bouncing off the claylike stone. He cried out and fell to the ground, shivering both from the pain and the fear dwelling inside. His attacker loomed over him, a large unkempt man with filthy hair.

Tarack curled tighter into a ball. "Leave me alone!" he shouted as loud as he could, hoping uselessly that someone would hear and run to rescue him. But no one would come, he knew. Tarack had listened closely to the attack on the village, had heard the strange men slaughtering the townspeople. There was no one who could help.

The unkempt Norr smirked cruelly and lightly kicked Tarack in the side, just hard enough to cause him pain without injuring him too badly. The boy whimpered and tightened up some more, screwing his eyes shut.

"Hey," said a voice from the other side of the room. "Sharc told us to check all the houses. What are we wasting our time with this little brat for?"

Tarack's assaulter chuckled and kicked out again, catching his foot against Tarack's skinny arms, which he was attempting to shield his body with.

"Come on, Raif, you're no fun!" he said. "These peasants aren't going anywhere, let's take our time, enjoy ourselves." He looked around and spied the doors to the two bedrooms. "Here, hold the kid while I go take a looksie in there. Don't let him escape, you hear? Sharc won't be happy if you do."

Tarack felt a flash go through him like a lightning bolt. After he'd realised what was going on, he'd told Linke to hide under the bed and to not come out. If this awful man found her, who knew what he'd do?

The boy scrambled out of his ball and lunged across the floor to grab at the dirty man, but before he made it halfway, he felt a pair of rough hands grab him, and a hairy arm wrapped around his midriff, lifting him right off the ground. The other man, Raif, pulled him away as the unkempt man entered the door on the right, where Bridget slept.

Tarack snarled and growled as he fought to break free of Raif's grasp, but he was seven and this man was a trained killer. He didn't stand a hope.

"Hey, stop that, kid!" snapped Raif, and tightened his hold, pinning Tarack's arms to his body. "Cray! What's taking so long, you bloody mong?! This little shit's getting on my nerves."

The unkempt man, who must be Cray, emerged from Bridget's bedroom with a grin and shrugged. "Just looking around for stuff I might like. Waste of time though, this town is a dump, nothing worth stealing."

He looked Tarack in the eye and winked, before moving on to the other bedroom. Tarack stopped moving and held his breath…if Cray found Linke, it would be awful.

Raif noticed the change. "What's wrong, kid?"

And then: "Hoho_hhhoo! _Raif, you'll never guess what I just found!"

Tarack redoubled his efforts as he heard a sound that made him sick. Linke's screams were wild and instinctive, primal fear inherent in every aspect of the sound.

"Leave her alone!" shouted Tarack, his voice sounding pathetic and weak. Ineffectual. "_No, _leave her _alone, _you monster!"

Cray dragged her out by her hair, his grubby fingers entangled in the messy red curls. Linke was shrinking up like a flower in the shade, her legs trying to give out under her, but if she fell then her entire weight would be on her scalp. The pain forced her to stay on her feet.

"A little darling dame," laughed Cray, and as Raif joined in Tarack felt tears slide down his face. Why was this even happening? It wasn't fair. Especially not to Linke. Tarack felt his bottom lip quivering. It always did when he was nervous or scared. And now, he was terrified.

Cray knelt down beside Linke, and the girl looked horrified as he drew closer. "You're a pretty little thing, aren't you?" the Norr whispered, stroking her cheek with those fingers. The nails were chipped and broken. Linke shrank away, eyeballs physically quivering in their sockets. They were swimming with tears.

"Tarry…" she sobbed. "Mum!"

Cray's mouth opened and he was laughing again. "Mum's gone, girly. She can't help you right now. For now, it's just you and me."

Linke cried out and bit down, sinking her teeth into the fingers still stroking her face. Cray bellowed and jerked his hand back, but Linke's eyes were angry and she didn't relax her jaw one bit.

"Get off, you little skank!" shouted Cray, and backhanded her across the cheek.

"Linke!" shouted Tarack, his insides in turmoil. How could he be letting this happen? Big brothers were meant to look out for their little sisters.

Linke cried in pain and fell to the floor in a heap. Her face was bright red from the blow and she was sobbing uncontrollably. Cray stalked over to her and pulled the girl to her feet.

"You're gonna bite me, are you?" he yelled, and slapped her again, this time across the front of her face. Tarack felt the blow as well. He wrenched himself away, but Raif held him fast.

"Woah, settle down, brat. You're not going anywhere, you hear?"

"_Let me go!" _shouted Tarack, his voice rising in pitch. "Don't touch her again, I'll hurt you! _I'll hurt you if you hurt my sister again_!"

Cray glanced at him, a glare on his face. "Shut up! What could you do, kid, wipe your nose on me?"

As the man turned away, Linke saw her chance; eyes running, she squirmed and was up in a flash, running across the room for Tarack. The boy forced his arms out of Raif's iron grip and reached out to her.

She didn't make it halfway. Enraged, Cray lashed out and threw his body on her, all of his weight bearing down on the girl. Then, he lifted her body and shoved her backwards, away from him and away from Tarack. She gasped wordlessly as she lost control of her movement, and the stone wall approached rapidly from behind.

It seemed to happen in slow motion for Tarack. He watched in desperation through a rippling veil as Linke collided with the wall, her head making a sickening crack as it hit the stone. Linke's eyes widened in an instant, the bright blue irises expanding…and then, the tiniest of moans escaped her mouth, and she crumpled to the floor, unmoving.

Silence deafened the room for a moment, until Cray straightened up, looking annoyed.

"Damn," he said, looking at Linke's tiny body. "Overdid it."

Tarack barely heard the words. He was as still as his sister, staring with a paralytic shock at her motionless form. He couldn't think clearly, and there was a rhythmic thumping in his ears, which he dimly registered as his own heartbeat, the blood pumping in his ears. It was like a steady bass drum, growing faster with every second.

"_Linke…"_

Tarack squeezed his eyes shut as a million spikes of ice drove into his brain, pulverising his nervous system with what felt like a deathly cold hammer. By now, his heartbeat was all over the place, erratically echoing through his entire body.

"_Let me out…"_

He gritted his teeth, eyes rolling wildly in their sockets. His ginger hair rippled suddenly as if a wind had blown threw it. His mind shattered like a pane of glass.

He felt weak. Useless! Why hadn't he been able to protect her? Tarack shook as he beheld Linke on the floor. She looked so cold. Facedown in the dirt, her hair covering her like a blanket. It looked limp and lifeless, the vibrant colour pale and faded.

"_You need me, boy…"_

It was all his fault! Tarack screamed inside his head, screamed obscenities and insults at himself. It was because of him. It was because of _him _that Linke was…no, she couldn't be. He refused to think that word. She wasn't!

"_She's dead. You know she is. They_ _killed her. Let me out."_

Cray looked around as Tarack sunk to his knees, head dropped. The boy's ginger mop hung around his face, shielding it from the Norr's view.

"What the-?"

Cray narrowed his eyes. Something wasn't right here. The temperature seemed to have fallen by several degrees, and that wasn't all. There was pressure in the air. It was like he was being squeezed by some invisible force.

"The kid-!" he began, taking a step forward. "Look at him!"

Raif held Tarack at arm's length, a strange mixture of disgust and intrigue on his face. "What is that?"

Shadows, it looked like. Pure darkness, like the utter black of the night. The substance, thick and rippling, poured from the boy's pores like sweat. It turned to gas as it came, a dense cloud of darkness that gathered around his body like an aura.

Cray frowned. It _was _an aura…

Tarack's head shot up, ginger locks tearing about as if he was standing in a hurricane. The blue eyes were actually glowing, when suddenly blood red cracks speared across the surfaces and impaled the blue, which swirled like a tempest before turning deepest black. Tarack opened his mouth and howled. The bellow was beastly, and sent chills down Cray's spine. It wasn't human.

"_I'll devour you!"_

**000**

Mataro grunted as he felt Dyun's knife tear at his pants leg, missing his skin by less than a centimetre. Heart racing, he pulled out mid-roll and landed awkwardly halfway between a crouch and all fours, completely exposed to a follow-up attack.

"_Crap!"_

Wincing slightly, he waited for the sharp pain between his shoulder blades, but it didn't come. Instead, he heard a low but perfectly insane chuckle.

"What's wrong, _General?_" sneered Dyun from behind him. His voice was high and definitely disturbed.

Mataro remained on the ground, thinking furiously. One thing was certain; Dyun was a complete idiot. Any competent strategist would kill him right now while they had the chance. Gloating got you nowhere. Of course, the Norr kept going: "Beaten already? I heard so much about your skills and now when I finally get to see you in action, I find myself disappointed. How sad, don't you agree?"

Mataro wasn't even listening much at all. While Dyun wasted precious winning time, the General scanned around him for something he could use as a weapon. By now he'd decided that he simply wouldn't be able to beat Dyun with his bare hands. Not only was it impossible to dodge forever, but if he attacked himself, he'd be sliced to ribbons by the sais. Besides, Dyun's reflexes had been magically boosted somehow. He wouldn't be able to get an honest hit in anyway…

Mataro slowly lifted his head so he could see in front of himself. The fight had carried them all the way across the tower roof, and the battlements were only a few metres away from where Mataro lay crouched. And slumped up against the wall, head lolling to the side groggily, was…

Mataro grinned. Weapon sighted and almost within reach.

Behind him, Dyun was nearing the end of his speech. Choosing to interrupt, the General twisted his head to look around and flashed his signature smile at the Norr.

"Shut up and bring it, you pansy."

Dyun straightened to his full height, seething. He reversed his grip on the sai in his right hand and held it aloft, ready to stab down.

"I've had enough of your wise-cracking, you imbecile!" he declared, looming over Mataro. "Now feel my cold blade within your body as you die! _Hragh!_"

His arm fell, but his strike never landed. Mataro watched everything click into place and moved at the right time, lifting his lower body from the floor and catching Dyun's wrist between his feet even as it came. Dyun yelled in surprise as his attack was stopped dead, arm caught between the General's legs.

"Wrong, Dyun," smirked Mataro, propping himself up on his hands like he was doing a push-up and looking between his arms, upside-down. "_You're _the imbecile!"

He grunted loudly and pushed as hard as he could, sending his feet forward and slamming into Dyun's face. The man bellowed and staggered backwards, blood filling his mouth.

"You son of a bitch!"

Dyun's eyes were blazing as Mataro cartwheeled away. He hissed in anger, specks of blood flying from between his teeth, and sprinted forward, knives outstretched.

"You won't be able to do that when you're dead! I'll spill your blood all over your body!" he yelled, and slashed with the sais.

_SSSHHRR-CHINGK-CHINGK!_

Twin clashes rang across the night sky as steel met steel. Dyun's eyebrows shot up as he beheld Mataro beneath him in a crouch, his back to the battlements. A sword was clenched in his powerful grip, holding Dyun's sais at bay.

"What the-?!"

"Checkmate, you Norr bastard!" goaded Mataro, and jerked his head to the left. Dyun's eyes slid to look, and his heart skipped a beat.

"_No!"_

Peil laid less than a metre away, still completely out of it. His scabbard was empty.

It him like a bolt of lightning. Mataro arriving on the scene, launching a punch. Dyun had dodged, but Peil hadn't been quite so lucky, blasted right across the roof of the fort. And now Mataro had lured him to this spot, so that he could take Peil's sword to defend against Dyun's lightning-fast blades.

"_You idiot," _Dyun thought, glaring at Peil's unconscious body. "_After I kill this moron, you're next."_

"As I was saying," chimed Mataro's voice, "_you're _the imbecile here. You could have killed me when you had the chance, but you delayed to gloat. And we both know that that's suicidal."

"B-But…" spluttered Dyun, beyond furious. "What are you _talking _about? You're the biggest show-pony in the kingdom, how can you lecture me about gloating?"

Mataro grinned. "Because I make it work."

Dyun gritted his teeth, and struggled to push Mataro's sword against him, but the General held him back easily. Peil's heavy hand-and-a-half sword had a major advantage over Dyun's narrow blades.

"You see, Kayne might have made you stronger and faster," Mataro said, and now he was doing the pushing, shoving Dyun back as the General rose. "But you have to know; I'm _still _the better warrior than you! The reason that I can gloat over someone like you is because I'm smart about it. Look at you now; because of my taunting you're angry and because you're angry you've already made a lot of mistakes. The biggest was letting me get a weapon. And now…"

The General hunched, teeth clenched, and gave a mighty shove, throwing Dyun off balance and sending him staggering. With the sheer grace of only a master, Mataro stepped onto the offensive, spinning up to his opponent and giving a single swing of his sword. Dyun saw him coming and raised his sais to defend. Mataro smiled; just as he'd planned. His sword whistled as it cut the air, and sheared straight through the twin blades, slicing the steel at the hilts.

Dyun cried out in frustration and anguish as his weapons were destroyed, and he fell back desperately to buy time.

Mataro held Peil's sword with both hands and raised it above his head.

"Your second biggest was letting me destroy yours," he declared. "Yield, Dyun. You're beaten."

It was worth a try. But Mataro knew that Dyun would never surrender to him. He could see it in the man's eyes; he was like a cornered rat, and even the most cowardly rodent would attack blindly when backed into an inescapable corner. Dyun hunched over, a vein throbbing in his forehead, lips drawn back as far as they would go.

"That's it?" he whispered, a crazed smile appearing on his face. "You think that that's it?" He threw back his head and laughed, a high screech that caught on the wind and carried over the city. "You…_you! _You have no idea what would happen to me if I returned to Kayne and told him of my failure here. The disgrace…it would only be the beginning. Eventually he'd just kill me. If I'm going to die, I may as well _take you down with me!"_

He plunged his hand under his cape and drew his sword, a curved one-handed blade that shone under the moon. He held the sword aloft, breathing heavily.

"En Garde, General! This is the last bout, for both of us! Once I kill you, no doubt I'll die at the hands of your men. But at least I know that when I arrive in Hell you'll be in the line ahead of me."

He lunged forward, stabbing out with his blade. Mataro's face was devoid of humour as he parried, leaning to one side while using Peil's sword to deflect Dyun's, before bringing his own sword around to strike back. Dyun bent backwards to avoid the worst of the blow, bringing his own sword to Mataro's and pushing it up so that he missed completely.

Dyun had nothing to lose. He was going all out, not caring whether he lived or died, only that he caused as much damage to Mataro as possible. The General reflected grimly on this. In terms of swordplay he was slightly more skilled, having greater experience and better training over the Norr, but Dyun's magical enhancements raised the bar a little. Even as Mataro rained slashes upon him, Dyun was using his supernatural reflexes to counter, not letting anything through his guard.

"_I have to catch him off guard, or overpower him physically," _thought Mataro, parrying a fierce combo of spinning attacks from his opponent. Dyun's eyes focussed little on the fight, instead staring intently at Mataro. His lips were perpetually drawn back in a snarl.

Mataro raised his sword above his head and brought it down, only for Dyun to easily deflect it to the side. The sword slammed into the roof and cut in, burying itself in the stone and refusing to budge. Reacting instantly, Mataro let go of the hilt and stepped closer, robbing Dyun of any room to manoeuvre before he could strike, and grabbed the Norr's sword arm, locking it against the quivering blade sticking from the roof below them.

Dyun twisted his free arm up and locked his fingers around the side of Mataro's neck, thumb digging into his throat. Mataro grabbed at the wrist and lessened the force closing around his windpipe.

"You've drawn your last breath," spat Dyun, struggling to cut off Mataro's air supply. The General gripped the Norr's wrist tighter, not relieving the pressure for a second. He tried to pull Dyun's hand from his neck but he was clinging too tight; he'd rip his throat right out. He had to make Dyun let go.

The two enemies swayed on the roof, grappling for the advantage. Dyun's eyes glinted as he slowly began to put more pressure on the General's windpipe and the man's breaths grew shallower. Mataro's eyes bulged. He needed something, anything. Anything that could allow him to escape this hold.

It came almost immediately.

Dyun's eyes shot open and his grip slackened immediately, as he twisted to look over his shoulder, staring in awe to the southeast. But even as his fingers sprang open as Mataro finally won out, neither of them moved. They could both feel it.

Dyun's mouth hung open in apprehension, his jaw sticking forward slightly.

"What the-?" he gasped.

"What _is _that?" murmured Mataro, in equal shock.

For far in the distance, beyond their line of sight, something had awoken. Something born of hatred and despicable evil, tainted and beastly. The kind of force that rocked the world, causing newborns to cry in their sleep and the superstitious to clutch desperately at their charms, wishing it all to go away.

And it was angry.

**000**

Cray shook involuntarily and took a step backwards, hand on the serrated iron sword at his waist. With a sharp screeching noise, he drew it and pointed the end at Tarack.

"_I'll crush your bones!" _roared the boy in a voice that wasn't his. The darkness was swirling around him like a tornado, rippling at his thin clothes and tangled hair.

"You won't touch me!" shouted Cray, holding the sword with both hands in front of him, as if he were trying to hide behind it. "Raif, kill him, damn it!"

But Raif was backing away as well, repelled by the shadowy force Tarack was exuding. He tried to shield himself with his hands.

"Do it! Just kill him!"

Tarack's eyes were deepest black now, and veins were visible around his jawline and cheeks. They were jagged and red, shining through his skin.

His mouth opened and another unearthly howl issued from his throat. The sound of it chilled Cray and froze him to the spot. Something else was at work here.

As Tarack's cry broke and Cray found himself able to move again, Raif moved in from behind. Cray felt a flicker of hope as his comrade shimmered up behind the boy and reached out with his hand. Cray smirked; he'd seen this before. Raif would break the boy's skull in his grip. The kid was as good as dead. Dimly, he became aware that he was sweating.

Raif bellowed a wordless sound as he went for the kill, meaty hand shooting out to grab at Tarack's neck. And just as quickly, the shadows moved to defend, stopping his attack dead. Raif's eyes widened as the darkness swallowed his hand, licking over the fingers and up his wrist until it was at his elbow.

"Hey!" he cried, panicking, and tried to pull himself away. But it was too late; he was trapped.

"_Now…" _seethed Tarack in that awful voice. "_I'll kill you dead…"_

Raif screamed; he couldn't hold it in any longer as a million needles shot into his arm, piercing it all over. The man's legs gave out and he crashed to his knees, clutching desperately at his shoulder as his arm was devoured. Cray gaped and backed up against the wall, but he couldn't run. He was paralysed.

The vectors of shadow twisted and withdrew, revealing the punctured skin and melted flesh of Raif's former limb. He stared at it in horror, eyes rolling in their sockets.

And then it was all over.

Tarack's teeth bared and he shrieked, hunching over like a madman and dipping his head. And the darkness followed his command, gathering up and launching at Raif. Spikes formed from the blackness and impaled him all over his body, picking him right up off the floor and slamming him against the wall of the small house. The Norr barbarian quivered and jerked as the shadows moved through him, the spikes swelling and growing larger, tearing open his wounds. His jaw dislocated from within and hung open. Blood rushed up his throat and vomited from the open mouth, erupted from his nostrils.

Raif choked and spluttered but there was no mercy. Within seconds he was completely gone, almost unrecognisable as a person anymore. His skin was burnt and small puncture holes littered his body.

Tarack grinned wickedly, his lips thin and grey. Drool was collecting at the corners of his mouth and trickling down his chin. He spasmed, and suddenly the shadows twisted and Raif was ripped apart, torn to chunks. Blood exploded and spattered across the walls and floor, soaking the stone, and Tarack dropped his head, panting wildly.

The room felt dense, and for several moments the only sound was the steady dripping of blood, punctuated by Cray's terrified breathing. The man was clutching at the wall across the room from Tarack, barely able to stand. His eyes were shaking and he looked close to hyperventilating.

"No…please, God, no…" he whispered.

Tarack raised his head, black eyes unmoving. His ginger hair fired off at crazy angles and there were dark shadows under his eyes. The thick blackness had died down, absorbed back into his skin again. Slowly, he raised his right arm until it was parallel to the ground, stretching out to one side.

"Leave me alone," cried Cray, tears welling up in his eyes as Tarack looked at him. "Please don't kill me."

He winced as Tarack took a slow step forward, and then another, and then another. The boy stalked deliberately across the floor, and his black pupil shrunk, the red cracks glowing. By now his skin had turned almost transparent, every vein visible beneath his skin.

"Your life means nothing to me," he rasped as he walked, and a tendril of shadow unravelled from behind him, caressing his right shoulder and collar bone. "A tiny flame in a storm of suns, insignificant in the grand scheme of the universe. That is what you are to me. An ant beneath my foot, a pebble trapped in my hurricane."

The tendril wrapped down Tarack's raised arm, covering every inch of his pale skin. It reached his fingers and encompassed them, swirling around the appendages like a glove.

Cray tore his eyes from this…_abomination_ and looked at the door. It was barely a metre away, but his feet were frozen to spot. Tarack closed in with every passing second.

"You killed Linke, so now I'll kill you. You're as helpless as she."

Tarack's arm bulged and suddenly the shadow was cast off like shattered ice. Cray's eyes widened; it was mutating even as he watched. The skin turned grey like a corpse and rippled as it grew, muscles expanding. It looked like jelly underneath the surface, but then it took form and revealed itself for what it was. His arm had been transformed. What had previously been the skinny weak limb of a young boy was now the weapon of a demon, dark grey and muscular. Powerful skeletal fingers formed a claw and then clenched.

"W-What _are _you?" shrieked Cray.

"I am your bane!" bellowed Tarack, and Cray bolted, turning and sprinting for the village outside. The boy moved like the wind, a rope of darkness stretching from behind his back and wrapping around Cray's ankle, pulling him screaming towards Tarack, who grabbed him with his new grey hand and hurled him against the wall. The stone cracked under the impact and Cray shivered as he landed in Raif's blood. His body ached all over and when he tried to move a white hot lance of pain shot up his spine.

He had just enough time to look up, barely able to see behind a veil of salty tears when Tarack's hand reached down and crushed his skull against the ground. Cray went rigid and then laid still.

Tarack looked at the man's body for several moments, not speaking. There was no one to see it, but for a second a hint of blue was visible in his eyes.

"Hey, that's not like you. Somebody's changed."

As he heard the voice Tarack spun, the spirit back in full control. At first it seemed that there was no one there, but then something shimmered and a man walked _through _the wall. He had pure white skin and cropped black hair. Orange eyes with no pupils surveyed Tarack.

"_Salve, felio lalvala. Latraus Estanghe."_

"You," replied Tarack, and the white man nodded.

"Was that you or the kid?" he said in a strange, melodical voice.

Tarack straightened up, a twisted grin on his face.

"A bit of both," he chuckled under his breath, and looked down at his own skinny frame, and at the muscular grey arm. "He gives me his body, I help him kill the murderers of his family. What can I say; I felt I owed the kid a favour."

"The first you've ever given, no doubt."

The spirit laughed. "Maybe. I really can't remember. What are you doing here? How are you even still alive?"

The white man shrugged. "That's for me to know. What are _you _doing here? Wait, don't tell me; I already know."

Tarack tilted his head. "You know, I really don't care for you much. You always were a know-it-all."

"It's in my nature."

Tarack chuckled. "That's true."

He turned away, walking to the centre of the room. Behind him, the white man tilted his head and suddenly his skin began to fade, his entire body beginning to disappear.

"_Vale,"_ he murmured, and there was a crack and he was gone. Tarack looked up at the roof.

"Dragon Balls," he said. "Any wish." Dark energy swirled around him and the boy's fist clenched. "I have to get them…if my ambition will be achieved. This boy's body will be useful for the moment. I can't reveal my true self yet, I'm not strong enough."

He considered. "This commotion won't have gone unnoticed. Everyone present in this town will feel my presence. And then _die."_

The shadows whipped around him as he thrust his grey arm above his head and clenched his fist. There was a rush of dark energy and the roof expulsed with a mighty crushing sound. Tarack screamed and the house was blown apart in an instant, and then he was flying, straight as an arrow.

Cries of shock echoed over the village below as every eye turned, Norr and Fowledge alike. A great column of dust and smoke rose fifty feet into the air above the wreckage of Bridget's house.

Levitating in front of the smoke, Tarack leered down at the village, grinning madly. He swiped with his deformed arm and a line of fire rose between the houses, cutting the village in two.

The slaughter had begun.

**000**

The white man's orange eyes narrowed as he crouched, motionless, on the edge of an outcrop jutting from the sheer slope of Mt Fowl. He saw everything perfectly despite the distance. He didn't blink once.

**000**

As one, the sounds of fighting in Musta ceased as eyes turned to the southeast. Mataro's jaw was tight as he felt the evil.

"_What the hell is that?"_ he thought. "_What is that force?"_

It was like nothing he'd ever felt. Extraordinary power, but it was different. This was otherworldly, and that wasn't all. Something was blocking his sensing ability. He couldn't gauge the strength of what he was feeling. It was just that; a feeling.

"What have you and that bastard cooked up now?" he shouted, but Dyun shook his head, eyes wide.

"No," he said. "This…this is not Lord Kayne's doing!"

"_What?"_

Mataro looked at him, eyebrows contracting. For once, he was deadly serious. If Kayne had nothing to do with this, then that meant that it was completely unknown. And therefore, a possible threat to the kingdom.

"_I think more than possible…"_ he corrected himself as he considered the tainted feel of the energy. This was _definitely _a threat.

But first, to deal with the threat in front of him. This was his chance, while Dyun was still ogling the horizon. Mataro drew back his foot and slammed a kick into Dyun's stomach, blowing him backwards. Dyun recovered quickly and skidded to a halt, seething.

His snarl faltered.

_BAM!_

Mataro's powerful fist slammed into his chest and Dyun screamed, staggering backwards and squeezing his eyes shut as he fell to his knees, clutching at his front.

"Why couldn't I see you coming?" he wheezed, breaking into a coughing fit.

Mataro's face was thunderous as he stood over the Norr, cracking his knuckles. "It looks to me like Kayne's given up on you, Dyun. He's withdrawn his powers."

Dyun gasped, his breathing growing faster. "W-What?"

"You're normal again, without your reflexes _or _your speed. This fight's over. The city is ours."

"No!" screamed Dyun from his knees, and he dug his fingers into the roof below him, gouging lines into the stone. The Norr whipped his head up to stare at the General that he hated. "I'll never give in to you!"

He lunged forward, but Mataro was faster. His fist glowed with a white light as it swung and connected with Dyun's jaw.

"_Heaven's Hammer!" _

Dyun's wordless war cry was silenced as he flew like a ragdoll, neck broken and body energy-less. Without another sound, he cleared the battlements of the tower and fell to the city below, cape billowing as the air rushed by.

Mataro breathed heavily, and realised that his body felt heavy. The General let out a breath and relaxed. He hadn't had such a battle in quite a while. Dyun had been a worthy opponent, despite being artificially empowered.

He looked at his body and saw the blood that covered him. Most of it was his own, weeping from the open wounds that Dyun's blades had given him. The General reached into a pouch that hung from his neck, under his singlet, and pulled out a small wrinkly green pea, which he ate. Within moments, his cuts had scabbed over and his blood replenished.

Mataro grimaced as he looked at the state of his clothing. His favourite singlet was torn to shreds and stained dark red, and his baggy martial pants looked much the same.

The General turned as he heard a groan behind him, and Peil lifted his head, groggy-eyed and confused. Mataro strode over to him and crouched down, patting him on the shoulder.

"Captain," he said, and Peil took a few seconds to focus on him. Suddenly he started, and scrabbled back. The blond stopped winced as the action drained what little strength he had left.

"General," he muttered. "You killed Dyun?"

Mataro nodded cheerfully, and Peil turned pale.

"_How ironic," _thought Mataro.

"Don't kill me," Peil pleaded. "I was just following orders, I swear."

"I'm not going to kill you," shrugged Mataro, and moved past Peil to look over the battlements behind him. "You're not worth it." Peil watched him wide-eyed. His blond hair hung messily over his eyes, matted and dirty. His nose was very obviously crooked and dried blood covered the lower half of his face.

"I don't think I like being allied with Kayne," Peil said dumbly. "I didn't really have a choice, though…what's going to happen to me? Will I be locked up?"

Mataro shrugged again. "That's for the King to decide. I'm just the General."

Peil hung his head. "This isn't very fun at all, is it?"

"Nope. War never is."

The battle was over, Musta in the hands of the King's Elite. Hundreds of Norr, dead or unconscious, littered the streets, but true to their word – and their threat – the Elite had not allowed a single civilian to die. A few of the Norr had tried; hostages taken and threatened to attempt to stay the king's men, but they were taken out before the innocent was harmed. Mataro grimaced. It had been a rough night.

Tobar zoomed over the city and landed a few metres away, and the others joined him only seconds later. Mataro exchanged one look with him and they both nodded.

"Alright," said the General. "Stay here and round up any stragglers. Tobar, you're with me. Let's go."

Nothing more needed to be said. Ki surged through their feet and the two men blasted from the roof, flying over the city and towards the dark horizon. Southeast.

Whatever dark being had awoken, Mataro was going to find out what it was.

**000**

Tarack shivered as blood spurted up his arm and coated his cheek. Finally, a body to channel himself through. He flicked his tongue between his teeth and tasted the blood on his skin, taking in its vividness, and then crushed the windpipe of the quivering body below him. Fearful eyes went blank, and all movement stopped.

The boy straightened up and closed his eyes, sensing the ki around the village. Latching onto a signature, he turned and raised an arm. The shadows swirled around him and joined together, a beam of energy firing from his palm and connected with a stone house. It ruptured with a deafening blast, the walls blown into the air and everything within vaporised. Tarack's lips turned at the corners and then he was flying, the wind tearing at the tattered remains of his clothes.

His small body rode on nothingness through the village and black eyes searched relentlessly. Locating his prey, Tarack spun down and stabbed with his grey arm, impaling the cowering villager's body and coming out the other side. Rivulets of blood trickled across his skin as the woman gasped. The demon looked into Tarack's mind and recalled her name.

"T-Tarry…" whispered Hana, Fowledge's resident healer, and then she slipped away, body crumpling.

There wasn't much noise any more. Most of the screams and cries for unanswering gods had stopped long ago, and now the only sound was the crackling of the flames and the spitting wood.

No one stirred as Tarack stalked back through Fowledge, the cobblestones beneath his feet reflecting the flames on their shiny surfaces. It was a disturbing sight; the boy's ginger hair stood on end and his mutated grey arm almost reached his knees. Veins throbbed underneath the surface of the dead skin. Shockingly black irises shone with an alien glee, and that awful, awful smile never left his blood-soaked face.

With his shadows coiling around his legs, he reached the village centre, where only minutes before the Fowledge residents had faced the Norr in protest. Now there was nothing left but rubble and the rising flames. Tarack looked around him, and then up at the sky. Columns of smoke surrounded him, blotting out the stars.

He laughed.

It started out small at first, merely a tiny scratch in his throat, but as the seconds passed by it grew and grew until the child finally threw back his head, mouth wide open, and deep rolls of the guttural sound poured from his throat. Quite suddenly, he fell to his knees.

Tears cut through the red of his cheeks but still he laughed, despite the desperate sobs that wracked his body at the same time. Tarack's arms wrapped around his own chest, the grey and the pale contrasting. He clutched at himself, fear clouding his eyes. The crazed twisted grin cut his face in two.

"W-w…what…what have you…done…?"

A faint voice cut through the insane howling, barely audible, but the throws of laughter stopped. Very slowly, Tarack turned his head, body still shaking on its knees. Although tears still ran from his eyes, they were unforgiving, and the grin widened.

Spole, the village head gasped in pain as he tried to crawl from underneath a slab of stone, struggling to push it from his frail body. He lay stomach-down in the dirt, and his legs were trapped. The man's wispy hair was flat against his head, sweat gluing it to his scalp. He stared at Tarack's crouched form, and those eyes stared back.

"H-how did you…?" Spole said in a whisper. Every word seemed to be an effort. "W-why?"

The flames grew higher, silhouetting Tarack against the bright flare. Spole flinched as the boy rose, and then he was moving ever so closer, deliberate steps.

"Tarack!" gasped Spole. "Where did this come from? What is this power? What's…what's taken hold of you?"

Tarack stepped within arm's reach and knelt down, caressing the elder's face with his hands. The smile lessened, the lunacy leaking from until it was almost warm. They looked at each other, faces only inches apart.

"Y-You're not the boy I know…" whispered Spole, and Tarack finally answered. His hands found their place around Spole's head and they began to squeeze.

"No," he said, and the voice of the demon issued from his throat. "I'm not…"

**000**

Rightio, I'm feeling mighty cheerful right now despite the subject matter. I extend my thanks to you for reading through; that makes me feel happy.

I finally finished part 2; huzzah! I must admit I went a bit over the top with the gore there, but oh well. Whatever's possessing Tarack there really is one sick mofo. Or maybe that's me…I dunno, one of us.

I really can't think of much to say now so I'm just going to finish up. Don't forget to review ;)

Toodles!


	3. Part 3: Orphan

**Dragon Ball X**

**Kingdom Crushed**

Ehehe…*awkward silence*…Sorry it took so long. Lots of stuff happening in my personal life at the moment.

But now, we come to Part 3 of the first Dragon Ball X OVA, Kingdom Crushed. Things have started heating up, that's for sure. Well, I really can't think of much to say, so…

On with the chapter!

**000**

"Again!"

The clang of a sword beat out a rhythm, accompanied by an occasional grunt and the soft thud of footsteps against the ground. Sand kicked up and scattered to the air.

The sun burned down on the sparring field, a brilliant blue sky marking a fine day. Not so fine for the young man who thudded to the ground, a muscular shoulder driving powerfully into his chest and shoving him to the ground. His sword, a strong blade designed for a more elegant style, speared into the dirt a few metres away.

"Up," commanded a tall blond warrior, flourishing his own blade effortlessly. "You did well that time."

The youth climbed painfully to his feet, grimacing. "Thanks, I guess. I'm trying. It's just, these swords are so damn heavy. Can't we just use the normal ones?"

Geani tilted his head, piercing blue eyes unforgiving. "No," he said slowly. "Your Majesty the King asked me to train you - the prince - but that doesn't mean I'm going to let you slack and learn sloppily, Krill. The heavier the sword to train, the faster you will grow, and these swords are the best."

Krill frowned, and pulled his sword from the ground. It was like an anvil. "Why can't my father train me, anyway?"

"He's got a lot to deal with, in case you didn't notice," said Geani, rolling his eyes. "Now advance. Remember, use your ki to punctuate every swing of your sword."

"Right," said Krill, and stared intently at his sword. The air around him blurred ever so slightly as he gathered up the energy dormant in his body and brought it to the surface.

"Begin!"

Krill gripped his sword in both hands and lunged forward, only for Geani to easily deflect, the man barely even paying attention. Remembering his advice, Krill spun and brought his sword around in large arc, aiming directly for Geani's neck. There was a loud ring as the swordsmaster blocked with barely a thought, and Krill attacked again and again. Each blow was answered with steel, and Geani looked bored as he effortlessly protected himself. The sword was like an extension of his body.

"Is that it?" he said loudly over the clangs of the swords, goading the prince. Krill stabbed out and Geani swept his weapon to the side, stepping in and grabbing Krill's collar, twisting hard and pulling him in. Krill stumbled and tripped over his own feet. His sword was ripped from his hand as Geani simply batted it from his fingers and then the gentle touch of cold steel was at his throat, held by a bronzed hand.

Geani's eyes stared at him, barely inches away. They didn't blink, and Krill avoided looking directly into them, finding himself examining the rest of the man's face instead. With a beard identical in style to Krill's father's, Geani's face was dominated by his large, but sharp nose. A faded brown scar knitted across his left cheek. Geani's straw-like hair was tied at the back into a knot that reached the base of his neck.

"Don't be so obvious with your movements," he said shortly. "I could see you coming from leagues away. I told you to punctuate your strikes with your ki, not swing your sword like it's seven feet long."

"And what if it is, brother?"

Krill blinked as the loud voice interrupted them, and Geani's eyes went dull, his face tightening slightly. He sighed wearily, and let go of Krill's collar, stepping away. Krill stumbled back and got some distance between himself and the swordsmaster, turning to look in the direction of the voice. By the edge of the sparring field, a man stood watching them, leaning against one of the heavy stone pillars that encircled the field.

He was massive, bigger than even General Mataro. The man had a round boyish face, complete with a swoon-worthy smile and bright blue eyes. A layer of stubble clung to his cheeks and jaw. Unlike Geani and Krill, who both wore Slavoan leather armour, this man wore no shirt at all, his impressive muscles tanned and covered in sweat. He looked like a brick wall. And speared into the ground alongside him was a ridiculously huge broadsword, at least as tall as the man who wielded it.

"Borg!" smiled Krill.

"Borg…" growled Geani, unimpressed. "I'm trying to train the prince here, what is it?"

"Just showing off my latest piece," said the blacksmith, and tugged the enormous weapon from the ground and strolling towards them, swinging the sword gently around like it was a toy. It actually whistled as it cut the air. "What do you think, Krill? It's a beauty, all right, and light as a feather. Well, at least it is compared to those leadweights you're practising with."

"It's a little large," said Geani drily, sheathing his own sword in the scabbard strapped to his back. "Are you sure you can handle something that long, Borg?"

Borg just laughed, and passed the sword to Krill, who accepted it eagerly. Krill pulled the weapon up so that it stood vertically; it stood taller than he did.

"It's amazing," he said, running his hand against the flat of the blade. The sword was made for cutting by force; its sheer bulk and single razored edge made it perfect for hacking at its target rather than slicing or stabbing like one of Geani's thinner blades.

Geani just shook his head.

"It's ridiculous," said the swordmaster bluntly. "In a real fight that thing would be completely unwieldy and too hard to fight with. The wind resistance is too great to swing it fast enough to block an enemy's attack."

Krill and Borg exchanged a grin, and Borg shrugged. "Big brother; must you always be so serious? Always the critic, huh. True, this sword isn't the most dexterous, but it's not useless in battle. If you want, I'll prove it-"

_SHINGK!_

Krill's eyes went as wide as saucers; he hadn't even seen what had happened. All he knew was that suddenly Geani was closer to Borg, arms raised. The twin scabbards he always wore at his waist were suddenly empty, the curved blades that were housed within jumping from their casings like snakes, whipped through the air and came to a halt at Borg's neck, crossed together to make an X. Borg's throat rested at the spot where the steel met. It all happened too fast for Krill to register.

"Is that a challenge?" growled Geani, and despite the swords at his throat Borg wasn't fazed. He met his brother's eyes without blinking, grinning the whole time, and to Krill's surprise Geani's mouth raised at the corners.

"Good boy, Geani. So you _can _have fun after all," Borg said, and held his hand out. "Krill, my behemoth please."

"That's what you're calling it?" murmured Geani, rolling his eyes again.

"I haven't come up with a name yet," said Borg in answer, as Krill warily lifted Borg's massive sword and held it out for the blacksmith to take. Borg closed his massive hand around the thick leatherbound hilt and awkwardly turned the sword around until he was holding it upright, the blade between Geani's swords and Borg's neck, holding the steel at bay.

Geani fixed him with a long gaze, and raised an eyebrow.

"Okay, okay, so I'm still getting the hang of its length…"

"Stand back, Krill," said Geani sharply. The boy saw his fingers tighten around his swords, and gulped. "You don't want to accidently be cut in half when he swings that _thing _around."

Krill backed off immediately, retreating to the safety of the pillars lining the sparring field. In the centre, the blacksmith brothers stood still for a few seconds, somehow sizing each other up without moving their eyes.

"Bored now," said Borg suddenly. "Let's go already."

He took a heavy step forward and placed his weight on the behemoth sword. Krill gasped as the man gave an enormous shove, pushing Geani several metres back. Geani's feet skidded in the dust, sending a small cloud up and bringing him to a stop. He brought his swords together, pointing at Borg, and placed his body in a defensive position.

Krill flicked his eyes back to look at Borg, just in time to see the man tug something from his ragged belt and stretch it over his hand. It was a glove of some sort, and Krill could just make out some sort of chainmail padding stitched over the palm of the accessory. Krill frowned; what was that for?

He blinked, and suddenly there was a haze of dust and Geani was right next to Borg, both swords swinging in a deadly arc towards Borg's stomach. To his credit, the blacksmith responded instantly, bringing his massive broadsword around and deflecting Geani's blades away from him. Borg held his sword in two hands, its massive length whistling horrifically through the air; Krill was glad that Geani had ordered him to stand back. Even a few metres too close could result in the death of you.

Geani seemed to be doing fine up close, however.

Borg's sword slammed down on Geani's curved blades, but didn't break through the man's defence at all. It was just easily caught between the twin swords, trapped in the X.

And then, with Borg's sword trapped, Geani slipped one of his swords out and slashed at Borg's unprotected side. Krill gasped and stepped forward, but he needn't have worried.

Borg caught the blade.

The razor steel stopped dead as the blacksmith's fingers closed around it, and suddenly Krill realised the purpose of the glove Borg had put on. It protected his hand, allowing him to physically block blows using his own appendages as well as his sword.

Geani realised this at the same time, and smiled ruefully. "I see…_that's _the secret to this sword, isn't it?"

Borg nodded, and bore his weight down on the massive behemoth still pushing against Geani's free sword. "That's right, big brother."

Geani twisted, tearing his sword from Borg's grip, and stepped to the side, allowing Borg's weapon to fall past him and thud on the ground. It bit at least a foot into the dust, and Borg cursed. Not a second later, Geani's sword hummed towards him again, and Borg ripped the behemoth from the ground, bringing it between him and Geani.

CLANG-CLANG!

Krill watched in amazement as the brothers fought, each the opposite of the other; Geani's speed was phenomenal, and his dual-wielding style was fearsome to watch; against any other opponent it'd be impossible to defend against. But Borg was not any other opponent. His enormous bulk presented an easy target, but his reflexes and speed were both equal, if even greater than Geani's, and with his armoured glove, he could defend with his bare hands if he had to.

They spun in the dirt, leaping and darting across the sparring field. Geani rained blows upon Borg with the finesse of a master, but Borg responded in kind, and Geani was forced to defend desperately more than once.

And then, finally, it was over.

Borg swung his sword in a horizontal arc, ready to cut Geani in half, but the other man bent backwards, limboing under the sword, and then spun, swinging his leg around and hooking a foot around Borg's ankle. The big man stumbled and tried to bring his massive sword around, but Geani tugged and Borg tripped backwards, forced to abandon his attack to stop himself from falling. In the second that it took to recover, the fight was over.

Borg stood as still as a statue, sword raised uselessly to defend. The tip of Geani's sword dug into his spine, and he could feel the other at his throat. The man smiled.

"I submit."

"Good," came the sardonic reply, and Geani removed his swords from their positions at Borg's vital spots, sheathing them.

Krill realised that he was holding his breath, and released it as he moved back onto the field. His legs were shaking just from watching the ferocious battle. Borg stabbed the behemoth into the ground and scratched his neck.

"Looks like you win this time, big brother," he growled, and removed his glove. As if to add salt to the wound, Geani smiled cheerfully for the first time Krill had seen in a while.

It disappeared a second later as the man pivoted and dropped to one knee. Krill flinched as a knife leapt from Geani's upper belt, held in the man's chiselled hand, and then Geani's wrist flicked and the dagger spun the length of the field, directly at a young page who had just arrived on the edge of the field.

The page shrieked hysterically as the knife flashed under the sun towards him and waved his arms. The dagger thudded into the pillar behind him, but not before catching on the shoulder of his cloth shirt and pinning him to the stone as well. The youth's feet dropped from under him as he tried to reach the safety of the ground, but the knife prevented him from falling and he just sort of hung there, steadily choking.

"That's how you say hello?" said Borg quietly, blanching, as he, Geani, and Krill stared at the newcomer. The page was slowly turning blue.

Geani rolled his eyes and strode over to the page, who saw him coming and whimpered breathlessly. Krill and Borg followed together.

"Stay still," grunted Geani, pulling another knife from his belt. The page closed his eyes and tears slid from within, and Geani slashed at him.

The page fell clumsily to the ground as his shirt was cut through, releasing him from the pillar. He gasped for air and scrabbled away. Geani fixed him with a disapproving glare.

"Don't sneak up on people," he said. "Or your leggings might be filled."

"I didn't sneak up on you, I was about fifty foot away!" wheezed the page. "I was about to announce I was there, and then you _threw a knife at me! _What the hell was that?_" _

"Oh," said Geani in a tone that implied he didn't care. "My apologies, then. Why are you here?"

"_Man, he's harsh," _thought Krill as the page climbed to his feet, still shaking like mad.

"I have a message for you, Sir Geani," said the youth, his eyes never leaving the daggers at his charge's belts.

"Then spit it out already."

"Yes, sir," said the page, and for the first time looked Geani in the eye. "General Mataro has returned from Musta."

**000**

The stone hallway disappeared behind Geani as he strode swiftly down its length, Borg by his side and Krill hot on their heels. With barely a glance at the passing servants and residents of the castle, they emerged into the Throne Room, entering from the side. Geani cast his eyes to the stone slab at the head of the chamber; it was cold and empty. The King was not yet present.

No sooner had this thought crossed Geani's calculating and ever-cautious mind when his instincts took over, and he swept his eyes from the empty throne to survey the room, instantly checking it for threats. For a second, his gaze lingered on the cold floor in front of the throne; a patch of dark red still clung to the ground, highlighting the spot where Geani himself had killed the traitor Derci only three days before.

"_Derci…" _thought Geani shrewdly, recalling the man's actions. "_He claimed that he wasn't under the influence of the Norr…that he was acting of free will..."_

That would be a disturbing realisation. Had he really been acting on his own? No, that was absurd. Derci had been manipulated, even if he hadn't had known it; Lord Kayne, leader of the Norr Clan was adept in controlling minds. Geani mentally shook his head and continued his scan.

The Throne Room marked the centre of the castle, a grand chamber for the King to greet his subjects. It rose tall, the ceiling far above the floor, and was lit by several candles mounted all around the room, sending flickering light bouncing off the tassels and tapestries strung to the walls. No windows adorned the hall, but the room was still well-lit by the hundreds of minute flames, and their light reflected from the polished floor beneath Geani's feet.

At the other end of the hall, a heavy iron door marked the main entrance to the Throne Room. On either side rose solid stone staircases, each robed in rich purple cloth. The stairs hugged the wall all the way up, ending in a small landing before continuing perpendicularly a short way along the length of the hall, eventually giving reach to viewing platforms that stretched the rest of the length. These long landings overlooked the Throne Room, allowing residents of the castle to gather in the case of a trial or sermon. The platforms were held up by heavy rippled pillars, each carved with the words of previous kings.

And finally, in a shallow sunken area running the middle of the room, a thirty metre long table of polished wood found its place, lined with high-backed seats where the Castle Royals sat in the time of a feast. Several Royals were present now, but none were seated.

Well…except one.

Near the head of the table, casually slumped in the chair of his position, General Mataro sat devouring a meal of meat and soup. As he laid eyes on the leader of the King's Elite, Geani almost flinched. The General was covered in blood; his trademark green singlet and white baggy pants were slashed and torn, both stained heavily with the same blood that soaked Mataro's skin.

Krill let out a little yelp as he too saw Mataro's condition, gaping wordlessly. Borg narrowed his eyes.

"What happened to him?" he murmured. "I've never seen Mataro like _that _before…Even he's too cautious to let his guard down."

"I know," said Geani quietly in response.

Something stirred to his right and Geani half-turned, reaching for a knife at his belt, but stopped as someone stepped out from behind one of the carved pillars. Geani stopped immediately and inclined his head, blue eyes never leaving the newcomer's face.

"Korros…I wasn't expecting you."

Dark pupils met his as Korros' mouth opened, showing sharp fangs. A member of the mystical Namekian race, Korros looked positively monstrous compared to the gruff but immaculate Geani, with dark green skin and two probing antennae sprouting from his smooth bald forehead. Wickedly pointed ears shot from the sides of his face, and he had a sharp nose. Pink patches outlined the muscles of his arms. Being taller than most men and with a terrifying appearance, Korros rarely demonstrated his relatively young age.

"Azimuth decided to send me to join you," Korros said. His voice was gravelly, but deceptively calming. "He felt that the situation was beginning to worsen."

He turned suggestively to look at Mataro, and Geani squared his jaw, nodding. Although technically holding no power in the Slavoan Court, it would be the height of all foolishness to ignore the word of the Great Guardian of Haven, the Namekian Azimuth. He held enormous power and wisdom.

No one knew where the Namekians had come from, few saw them, and even fewer were even aware of who they truly were. There were three. Azimuth the Guardian, his offspring Hamasan of the Soil, and _his _offspring, the fearsome Korros.

"He felt it, didn't he?" asked Geani under his breath. "That surge three nights ago, in the South-East. That energy."

Korros nodded. "We all did. It was tainted, evil. And then, it just disappeared as if it had never been there. But it left its mark."

"What do you mean?" said Borg from behind Geani. "Left its mark?"

Korros glanced at him. "I felt their energies extinguish; a great number of people were killed that night. A village, perhaps. Whatever that energy was, it killed them all."

"What?" Borg exclaimed. He grimaced. "That same night, Mataro and his men retook Musta. Do you think whatever it was chose the time when we'd be most distracted to attack?"

"No," answered Korros. "It was wild. Untamed and angry. It was mere chance that chose that time." He shrugged. "We might still find out. Your General flew to find out what had happened."

"We know."

"He bought someone back. A boy…"

Geani and Borg's eyes both flew open in surprise, an identical movement, but before Korros could elaborate there was movement at the side of the room, and King Kentus entered. As usual, he was flanked on both sides; on the King's right, the wizened mystic Talon stooped heavily onto his staff. And on the left…

Piercing violet eyes blinked beneath delicate lashes, as her petite frame strode upright beside the king. Next to her companions, Talon and Kentus, she looked a delicate flower, but Geani knew that those slender arms could strike harder and faster than most men.

"_Lady Arasha," _he thought, as the King laid eyes on Mataro and strode to the massive table. Talon took his place to the right of the throne, but Arasha stayed near the wall, standing in the shadow of the pillars. Her black hair, cut short, formed a neat fringe above her eyes.

"My Lord," said Mataro from where he sat, and the massive man rose instantly, chair scraping loudly along the behind him. Abandoning his meal, the General moved forward until he was standing before Kentus. They faced each other, brothers in arms.

"General," replied the King, taking in Mataro's appearance. Kentus' face was lined with stress, his forehead creasing in genuine worry as he took Mataro by the forearm. "Mataro…What's happened to you, man?"

"Please, My Lord," smirked Mataro, pulling his arm from Kentus' grasp. "We have company."

Watching from his position at the side of the hall, Geani narrowed his eyes and tutted at the General's callousness, but Kentus threw back his head and gave a hearty laugh.

"Mataro, even in your most weary state, have you ever shown any degree of seriousness whatsoever?" Abruptly, the King's smile lessened and he once again looked Mataro over. "Do you need medical attention? You smell of a dead man trodden in the dirt."

"I'll be fine, Sir," Mataro said, and shooed the king away. "It's not all mine. Get back up there on your throne; you have that whole kingly etiquette thing to uphold, don't you?"

Kentus grimaced and reluctantly acquiesced, rising to where the stone seat waited. The throne was a solid slab, completely flat and designed to be uncomfortable. It's tombstone-like backrest rose above the occupant's head, and near the top, an orange orb glowed. Six stars shimmered in its glassy depths. Kentus descended onto the seat and looked out over the hall.

"My Lord," inquired Geani, and all eyes turned on him. "Might I ask that we press on; I, for one, desire very much to hear of the events at Musta…and other concerns that have arisen recently."

The air went tense as he spoke, everybody aware of the concerns the swordsman spoke of. Kentus nodded slowly, and by his side Talon shuffled a foot forward.

"Indeed," the mystic said. "General; your men arrived here in the castle yesterday, without you and without Tobar. We understand from them that you went to confront whatever rose in the South-East. Is that where you sustained these injuries? Tell us everything."

Movement caught Geani's eye, and he saw Lady Arasha inch forward a little, her violet eyes on Mataro. Suddenly, they flicked over to him, and they glanced at each other.

Then Mataro began to speak.

Everybody listened intently as the General told of the assault on Musta, and his battle with Dyun. When he explained of the Norr's enhanced abilities, Borg cleared his throat, speaking up for the first time.

"Kayne was augmenting him from that a great distance?" Borg looked at Talon. "Is that even possible?"

Talon considered. "It would be a tremendous feat to do so, but someone of Kayne's abilities could theoretically boost Dyun's capabilities in such a fashion." The old man's face darkened. "He's the most powerful magician I've ever witnessed. Even I would not care to face him in combat without significant preparation."

"If he marches on the castle himself…" Borg murmured, but Geani cut him off.

"-then we would slay him without hesitation. The only reason we don't kill him now is because he's not yet fighting, rather hiding behind his lines. If we were to advance to him, it'd spark the beginning of an all-out battle between our armies. We can't risk that yet, but he's not invincible, Borg."

"Enough of this," interrupted Kentus suddenly, and a silence echoed through the room. "This is not a war council. Not yet." He turned to Mataro, who had been waiting silently, fidgeting with a newfound hole in his tattered singlet. "Continue, General."

"If you want, then…"

Mataro fell back into his story, informing his audience of the showdown atop the Musta Fort. Geani's forehead creased as he listened to the happenings, taking everything in; how Dyun had been distracted by the sudden explosion of energy in the South-East, and how barely a minute later Dyun's powers had vanished.

"_Kayne was distracted as well and lost control," _realised Geani with a start. "_He wasn't expecting it any more than we were. Which means that there's a whole new threat on our hands here."_

Mataro moved on to his defeat of Dyun and the man's subsequent death, and suddenly looked curious.

"My men," he said, "did they bring Peil of the Prion back with them? Where is he?"

Kentus frowned. "Yes. Peil is here; he's in a holding cell for now until we decide what to further do with him."

Mataro nodded. "I want to talk with him later. He's not responsible for his actions, and he has valuable information about the Prion's movements to join Kayne."

"Who cares about him?" said Borg suddenly, voicing what everybody was thinking. "Peil and the Prion can wait for now; Mataro…what happened in the South-East?"

Once again, the tension in the hall tightened as everybody's breath caught. Talon bowed his head, Krill gave a squeak of excitement, and even Korros didn't even blink as they all awaited Mataro's answer.

The General took a deep breath, and for once, seemed at a loss for words. Then, he swallowed, raised his chin and looked Kentus directly in the eye.

"My Lord," Mataro said in a strained voice, "the village of Fowledge has been completely destroyed."

**000**

"_By the Kais…" Mataro murmured, staring in shock at the ruin on the horizon. Even from this distance he could see the smoke billowing into the air, dark and ashy. The fires had stopped before the dawn had broken, but even now the smoke remained. Mataro could smell it on the wind; it was acrid._

_The morning sun cast a bright glow over the land, illuminating the world, and the trees far below cast early shadows onto the fields they bordered. Behind the smouldering village, Mt. Fowl reached up impossibly high, disappearing into the white puffy clouds. At its base, glistening in the light, was Fowl Lake. The water shone blue under the sky, but half of the body of water was cast in the mountain's shadow._

_And before that, a dreadful stain on the beautiful stretch of landscape, a village was in ruin._

"_What happened there?" Tobar called to Mataro. The dark-skinned man hovered a short distance away, the two men taking in the ruin from afar. "Isn't that Fowledge?"_

"_Fowledge…" said Mataro quietly. "Is this what that energy was last night? What person or beast could have done this?"_

_The General closed his eyes and expanded his ki, reaching out with his energy until he touched the remains of the village._

_Nothing. Not an energy signature to be found. Everything – everyone –had been killed._

"_Whatever it was, it's gone now," said Tobar, and Mataro knew he'd been scanning the ruins for life as well. "General, we have to investigate, let's get down there. There's no danger now."_

_Mataro was silent for a moment, and then he shook himself back to alertness. "Of course. Come on…"_

_He summoned his energy and levelled his body horizontally, before forcing it out through his feet and propelling himself into flight. With Tobar close behind, the General rode the air to the village. As they grew closer, the smoke only smelt stronger._

_Mataro shivered as their journey to the village put Mt Fowl between them and the sun, and the mountain's mighty shadow fell over them. Instantly, the world seemed a little colder._

_After a full night's flying, the ground seemed more solid than usual under Mataro's feet as he and Tobar touched down just outside the village. Both men hesitated for a second as they landed; the smell of smoke was empowering, threatening the senses. Mataro shrivelled his nose._

"_I don't want to be here for any longer than we have to be, so let's make this quick," he grunted, and Tobar nodded in agreement. Side by side, the two warriors entered the acrid remains of the village. _

_Or rather, what was left of what had been remains. It was hardly even recognisable as a village anymore; Mataro picked a delicate path down what he assumed was the main street, and more than once had to grimly step over large piles of rubble. The man crouched at the knees and examined a small slab of stone that had dug a shallow crater into the ground. It had scorch marks on it, and as Mataro looked closer, a spattering of dried red liquid._

_His stomach in his throat, Mataro climbed in a crouch over the slab and looked past it. And there it was; barely a metre away, strewn over an ocean of crushed debris, a young woman laid on her back, head slumped to the side and mouth hanging open in a dead scream. Her blonde hair was matted with dirt and blood, and pools of her liquid essence stained the ground under her, dripping from the hole stabbed through her chest. Even in death, Mataro could see the fear in her wide, blank eyes._

_For a few moments, Mataro could do nothing but look upon the woman's body, an unpleasant boiling in his stomach. What had done something as terrible as this? Suddenly, without warning an incomprehensible anger rose within him, threatening to escape in a furious scream, but the General forced himself to contain it. There was no point making noise; it wouldn't help at all._

"_General!" called Tobar from somewhere behind him, and Mataro rose, turning. The other man was a short distance away, lifting a giant piece of stone from a second body. Mataro's fists clenched unconsciously as he strode over and joined Tobar. Together they examined the broken corpse; a dark-haired man with rough stubble and dirty clothes; it looked like his neck had been snapped._

"_I can see more bodies further in," said Tobar quietly, gesturing towards the centre of the village. "There's nobody left alive. We're too late."_

_Mataro was silent, and Tobar poked him gently._

"_You OK, General?"_

"_Come on," said Mataro finally. "We need to keep on searching. Maybe we can find out what did this."_

_He rose from his crouch and stalked off between the ruined buildings without another word. Tobar looked after him for a few moments and followed._

_As they worked their way through Fowledge, the slain bodies of its residents grew more frequent. Most had been impaled in some way, but others – like the man Tobar had found – had been victims of broken necks or, to Mataro's disgust, had their heads or chests completely crushed._

"_Could it have been Kayne's men?" asked Tobar hesitantly, but the General just shook his head._

"_No. Dyun sensed it as well, and he told me that it wasn't the work of that bastard Kayne. But…" He stopped walking and stared at the mangled corpse of a farmer. "…whoever, or_ whatever _did this, it had fun."_

_Tobar sighed gruffly and ran his fingers through his hair, which was filthy from the night of fighting at Musta. "Yeah, I guess you're right there, huh."_

_Mataro grunted, and looked at something out of Tobar's view. Suddenly, he made a small sound and moved away, Tobar in quick pursuit._

"_What is it?"_

_A half-demolished house stood near, trails of smoke escaping from within its walls. And slumped against the wall, completely and totally dead, an enormous man stared lifelessly with one eye. The other had been plucked from its socket; blood soaked his face, pouring from the empty lid._

"_What the-?" breathed Tobar, realising what had drawn Mataro's attention; the man was garbed in full leather armour, and painted on the front were four vertical slashes. The insignia of the Norr Tribe. And that wasn't all; the man had been horrifically beaten…_

_The entire left side of his body was scorched, burnt skin peeling and bleeding; the smell of melted flesh was almost overwhelming. Both arms had been brutally smashed backwards._

"_He's a Norr soldier?" said Tobar. "What happened to him?"_

_Mataro shrugged, examining the dead man closely. "I don't know, but he copped it much worse than anyone else here. Looks like he was singled out by whoever did this. They took their time with this guy."_

"_What do you reckon that means?"_

_Mataro breathed out. "It means that they have a grudge against the Norr. I'll bet this poor guy wasn't the only one here; there would have been a small group. Our killer went after _them, _the villagers were just in the way."_

_Suddenly, his head shot up._

"_Do you sense that?"_

"_What?"_

_Mataro closed his eyes, and for the second time he expanded his ki to feel for life. And there it was...so faint. He hadn't been able to feel it before, but now that he was closer…_

"_Someone's alive!" he exclaimed, and rose into the air, flying over the rubble for the centre of the village. His aura blew around him, parting the smoke until he descended, Tobar landing a few seconds later at his side. _

_Compared to the rest of Fowledge, the town centre was relatively unscathed, the cobblestones – red with blood – dull under their feet. Here, the bodies were most numerous; at least twenty corpses littered the ground, but these had been killed by weapons, not by the furious hand of whatever had slain the others. To the side, a small crater marked the destruction of a house; it had been completely blown apart, and was the source of the main column of smoke above the village._

_And there, looking tiny in the morning sun, a small boy lay unconscious face down. Curly orange hair covered his head, and his clothes were in tatters, barely held together by a few strands of cloth. His right arm reached out as if to grab something. It was from him that the tiny spark of energy emitted._

_As gently as he could, Mataro rolled the boy over so that he was on his back, lifting him slightly so that he was almost sitting upright. The child's head lolled backwards, mouth slightly open. A string of drool came from the corner of his mouth and ran down his face._

_Mixing in with the blood._

"_Holy shit…" muttered Tobar. Every inch of the boy's face was soaked red, blood covering him like paint. It covered his neck and his skinny bare chest, down his left arm and over his fingers. But the right arm was untouched. The white skin looked disturbingly pale next to the rest of his crimson body. A small gash was healing on the elbow, the only blemish._

_And then the boy's eyes shot open and he began to scream. It tore from his lips like a klaxon, a deep, primal scream that didn't end._

_Mataro swore as the child twisted, trying to escape the man's grasp, that sound still piercing from his throat, and blue pupils rolled wildly in their sockets. _

"_Listen to me._ Listen_ to me! You have to calm down," shouted Mataro, holding the boy's face still and staring directly into his eyes, but he may as well have said nothing for all the good it did._

_The scream continued without breath, and within seconds the boy's lungs ran out of air and his shrieking petered out into nothing. His panicking eyes rolled back into his head and he passed out, slumping in Mataro's grasp._

**000**

When Mataro finished speaking, he was met with silence as everyone present slowly took in the news.

"I brought the kid back here to the castle," continued the General. "He was out for most of the journey, but when he woke up, he wouldn't say anything. He barely even acknowledged me."

"What about Tobar?" murmured the King. "He's not with you now?"

"He stayed behind in Fowledge," Mataro said sombrely, and for the first time Geani had ever heard, the man's voice stuck in his throat. "He…wanted to bury the villagers. I wanted to remain as well, but the boy needed urgent medical attention and besides, I didn't want to make him endure that place any longer. So I returned with him."

"So where is the boy now?" demanded Geani exasperatedly. "What do you expect us to do with him, General? We're in a war, in case you didn't notice-"

Mataro's eyes flashed.

Geani blinked and stopped speaking as the air pressure in the room grew thicker, pressing at him ever so subtly. His mouth set in a thin line as tiny ripples surrounded Mataro, who was staring with sudden intense anger at the swordsman.

"How dare you?" said Mataro quietly. "You stand here in this hall declaring your advice, so curt and arrogant, and you have the gall to say that I don't notice the horrors happening right on our doorstep? An entire village was murdered, Geani! Destroyed! I saw the result with my very own eyes!"

"Be silent," snapped Geani. "We don't have unlimited resources, General, we already have to feed and look after every prisoner of war we capture. Another mouth and body is something we cannot afford right now. We should be focussing our efforts on finding whatever _did _do this."

"What was I to do?" shouted Mataro angrily. "Leave him there in the village, surrounded by dead family and friends and covered in blood? For Christ's sake, he's already traumatised as it is!"

"Who will look after him-?"

"Surely we can spare someone," spat the General. "Or are we so few on people that you can't even bother to keep a child alive?"

Geani curled his lip, and opened his mouth to retort when a clear sharp voice barked out, cutting him off.

"_Enough! _Keep your tongues behind your teeth."

Lady Arasha's violet eyes were hard as she finally spoke, stepping away from her place in the shadows of the pillars and moving forward, all eyes on her.

"Arasha…" growled Geani.

"She's right," droned Talon. "Bickering will get us nowhere." The old man turned to look at Kentus. "My Lord, I propose that Lady Arasha takes custody of the child, at least for now."

Arasha's expression didn't change, but Mataro saw her draw in breath slightly. She hadn't been expecting that, he realised.

Kentus nodded slowly, and looked at Arasha. "Will you take care of the boy?"

For a few seconds, the woman was silent, but then she reluctantly nodded.

"Very well. If I must."

Talon nodded. "Then we should consult more at a later time. The boy has information, my lady; he would've seen what happened. As soon as he is recovered enough to speak, we must question him. Until then, he's under your care."

The King nodded. "This is all we need to discuss right now." He waved a hand. "Mataro, you may return to your meal if you wish. Arasha, see to the boy. Geani…you and Talon come with me." Kentus looked at Korros. "And may I ask for you to join us, Korros of Namek?"

The Namekian nodded. He's been silent during the entire story, the only sound being his almost imperceptible breathing.

Less than a minute later, the only people left in the hall were Mataro and Lady Arasha. The General slumped back into his seat, an uncharacteristic scowl upon his face. Arasha surveyed him for a few seconds, and then departed as well.

Mataro's brows were furrowed as he ate the remainder of his food. He hadn't lost his temper like that in a while.

Shaking his head, he pushed the thought from his mind and devoured a chunk of meat. He chewed fiercely for several minutes before pushing away the ceramic bowl and standing up, following Arasha's path. There was someone he had to see.

**000**

"A boy? In your care?"

Arasha frowned dully as a peal of laughter burst from her twin sister's mouth. Arasha and Ashita. The King's personal bodyguards.

"Oh, be quiet," snapped Arasha, folding her arms and turning away. Despite being the elder twin, she was a few centimetres shorter than her sister. They both shared the same violet eyes, although Ashita's held delicateness and warmth that Arasha's lacked. "It's not funny at all, it's absurd. Why don't you look after him if you think it's so hilarious?"

"Because Talon asked you." Ashita moved across her bedchamber to the window looking out from the tower, and smiled at the sunlight pouring into the room. "Besides, I think you could do with a little childly influence; you're much too serious and cranky all the time."

"I am not," countered Arasha angrily, and then stopped when she saw the smirk on Ashita's face. She sighed. "Alright, maybe I am…But _one_ of us has to be. The Kais know that you certainly aren't; if we're talking about influences, Mataro's had far too much of a bad one on you."

"Oh, it's always duty this and duty that with you these days," said Ashita boredly. "I swear, Geani's having a bad influence on _you."_

Arasha gave a rare smile usually reserved for her sister's eyes only, and moved to the window as well, sitting upon the sill. A comfortable silence fell between the twins. Arasha closed her eyes and felt the sun on her face. It was a forgotten privilege these days, and one that should be enjoyed when the occasion arose.

After a few moments, Arasha said sadly, "When do you think the war will end?"

Ashita breathed out, her normally gentle face creasing in distress. "I don't know…"

"I want it to end soon. I'm tired of the fighting and the death. Life was so much simpler when we were but younglings. Back when Mother and Father were alive. It was happy back then, don't you remember?"

Ashita stepped up to Arasha and took her face in her hands, kissing her brow. "You worry too much, sister. Don't dwell on happier times or you'll go insane, and I don't want a fruit loop for a sibling, you hear?"

Arasha didn't say anything, but nodded, blinking.

"Come to the sparring field later on today," said Ashita, patting Arasha's cheek. "A good fight will cheer you up."

Arasha shook her head, and suddenly her uncharacteristic sombreness was hidden again behind her usual stern mask. "I have to attend to the child. The King asked me personally. Why he didn't call upon a handmaid or a spare midwife to adopt the child, I ask. I'm his personal guard, not his mother-for-hire."

Ashita laughed airily. "Duty calls, big sis. But don't be hard on Kenny, the war's stressing him out."

"I haven't heard him called Kenny since Katrina died," smiled Arasha. "I miss the Queen."

"We were all only eighteen when she passed," affirmed Ashita. "You, me, Katrina, and Kentus. It's been fourteen years…Krill's grown so fast."

There was a short silence while the sister's exchanged a brief glance, before Arasha turned to the door. "I have a child to see," she said acidly, and vanished into the castle halls.

Ashita smiled sadly and turned back to the window, tugging absent-mindedly at the end of her expertly-plaited hair and leaned back against the edge of the window, staring out over the city surrounding the castle. The Capital City was a perfect circle, arranged into several districts. And in the centre, Castle Slavo itself. Ashita gazed at the late morning horizon; far in the distance, barely a shadow against the sky, Mt. Fowl rose to the heavens.

Ashita creased her brow as she saw the great mountain. It had always unnerved her. As a child, she had often dreamed about the horrors that lurked inside, although she now knew that the mountain was primarily a series of ice tunnels that were empty of life.

Her attention focussed on the distant peak, the soft footsteps were lost on Ashita, and she jumped as a hand grabbed at her shoulder. Before she could react, the woman found herself being pulled around and suddenly a familiar taste crushed upon her lips.

Ashita's eyes widened briefly as the newcomer ferociously kissed her, but then she wrapped her arms around the back of the man's neck and he pressed his forehead against hers, their mouths briefly breaking apart.

"Mataro…" breathed Ashita, his dark eyes only centimetres away.

"I'm home, sweet lover," he grinned, and then he was attacking her mouth again, powerful tongue running across the front of her teeth. Ashita moaned and gripped at his hair, straggling her fingers through its wiry blond strands. Mataro smelled of blood and sweat, but Ashita didn't care. She pressed against him as his hands roamed her figure, light fingers pressing tantalisingly against her skin.

"I missed you…" she gasped when they surfaced for air. Mataro began kissing her neck and suddenly scooped her up, an arm under each leg so that she was sitting on his hands, and she held onto his shoulders as he carried her to the bed, still kissing madly. Chills were running down Ashita's spine, Mataro's touch sending desperate signals to her brain.

The feather mattress thumped against the bedframe as the two crashed onto it, and Ashita found Mataro leaning on his elbows on top of her, staring into her eyes. "You have no idea how much I missed _you_…" he murmured, and looked down at his own torso. "Sorry about the blood."

Ashita just smiled knowingly, and overcome in a sudden rush of passion, reached up and tore Mataro's singlet apart, revealing his muscular chest. She ran her fingers over his toned abdomen, a hungry look in her normally innocent violet eyes.

"Hey…" said Mataro sadly. "That was my favourite singlet…"

"It was ruined anyway," Ashita responded with a cheeky smile, and wrapped her hands around the back of his neck, pulling him closer towards her. Mataro's dexterous fingers danced against her skin as he pressed his mouth to her neck, and Ashita flushed, eyelids closing.

He always knew how to make her feel good.

"What do I get in return for my singlet?" he teased in her ear, gently biting her lobe, and Ashita felt a rush of warmth as he rushed his hands up beneath her shirt, ripping it off her in one swift movement. Mataro gazed with an intense fascination at her bare breasts, his breath quickening-

"Message for Lady Ashi-oh!"

A high voice cut into their reunion and Mataro and Ashita looked over to see a very flushed castle page, about seventeen years old. His face was bright red and his mouth hung open in dull surprise.

"Um…never mind…" he said, trying and failing to sound casual. The page backed out of the room awkwardly. "I'll just deliver the message later…It's not that important…Here, I'll…I'll just get the door…for you…Bye."

**000**

Kentus sighed and slumped back against his chair. The King was seated behind the polished desk in his private office, and closed his eyes.

"I'm sure of it; the boy is the one who destroyed Fowledge."

Korros spoke without remorse or subtlety. Beside him, Geani stiffened and even Kentus blinked at the Namekian, but Talon didn't seem surprised at all.

"The _boy?" _exclaimed Geani, raising an eyebrow. "He's a child, barely trained and probably never been in a fight in his life. Mataro spoke of a massacre, including the presence of Norr soldiers. How could a _child _do all that?"

"It's absurd," agreed Kentus.

"Absurd?" said Talon mysteriously. "I would have thought that, having met the Namekians at all you'd know that we don't know of _everything_ that happens in the world. How do we know who this child truly is? Why was he still alive, and what has he seen?"

"He was forgotten," scoffed Geani, determined to remain unconvinced. "The killer didn't spot him, thought he was dead. That's why he's still alive; _chance."_

"There's no such thing as chance," countered Talon, and Geani stopped speaking, struck momentarily silent. The swordsman looked at Talon, incredulity etched across his face.

"He's a _child."_

"So were you," responded Korros gruffly, and this this time Geani actually took a step back, eyes wide. He opened his mouth and closed it again. Korros stared blandly at him, arms folded as usual.

"Korros!" said Kentus sharply, and rigidly shook his head from side to side. Korros blinked.

"I apologise," the Namekian said shortly, inclining his head slightly.

Geani forced his face to remain passive, visibly tensing his jaw and blinking quickly. The King looked at him; Geani's past wasn't something the swordsman exactly liked discussing, and even Kentus wasn't entirely sure what kind of man he had been before becoming the official advisor to the throne roughly twenty years earlier. Geani had always been the way he was, from the moment Kentus had met him. What had made him such was a mystery.

Kentus raised an eyebrow inwardly; what did Korros know that had so completely affected Geani?

"But my point remains," the Namekian continued, ignoring Geani's discomfort, or perhaps tactfully avoiding the topic after bringing it up in the first place, "that we can't allow this to happen again. The boy must put to death."

"I agree," said Talon sombrely. "It is regrettable, but it must be done."

Kentus fixed them both in a hard gaze. "Absolutely not. We have no proof whatsoever that the boy was the one who did this, and even so, Geani's right; how could a boy be capable?"

"He's _dangerous."_

"Listen to me," snapped Kentus, his voice rising in volume. "When I was sworn into my position as King, I gave my word that I would protect the civilians of this nation. I pledged that I would not let them come to harm, and I'm sticking to that word pledge now. I will not allow a boy not even ten years of age to be murdered on a suspicion, _do you understand me?"_

"I can sense something in him," argued Korros, subtly baring his fangs as he spoke. "Something dark and powerful."

"What do you mean by that?" Geani had finally found his voice again.

"My species' sensing abilities are far more advanced than yours," said Korros in a proud snarl. "We can detect inherent evil and genuine goodness in a being's energy, and that boy is overflowing with malice and hatred. It may not even be in his conscious mind, but it's there. I'll say it again; _this boy is dangerous._ More than anyone could realise just by looking at him."

"I will not murder a child…" repeated Kentus quietly and furiously. "It's despicable to even suggest such a revolting inhavien act!"

"I'm not a Havien," growled Korros in answer.

"It has to be done…" agreed Talon. "My Lord, I beg you to listen and see sense. I too can detect the innate evil in him. It's locked inside for the time being, but in time all that hatred will come out and when that happens…" The mystic paused, as if choosing his next words carefully. "…when that happens, I don't believe we'll be able to stop him."

The air in the room seemed to swell. Kentus and Geani exchanged a worried glance. They both knew that Korros and Talon were two people it would be wise to trust and follow the instructions of, particularly in a matter so dire.

"My King…" began Geani quietly. "I don't know what's the right response here. It could be that the darkness inside the child has come about because he witnessed the massacre. He might not be the monster who committed it."

Kentus nodded. "I've realised that as well. Unless we have absolute evidence towards the child's involvement, I will refuse to condemn him to the cruel cessation of his life. For the time being, we should allow Arasha to appeal to him; perhaps she can benefit us with a more concrete analysis after spending time with him."

"Very well," said Talon, as if he'd been aiming for this outcome the entire time. "Let it be so."

"I will abide by your decision, King," said Korros. "But I do not believe it's the correct one. Only time will tell."

The Namekian turned and left the study without looking back. A short silence followed before Talon bowed respectfully and leaned on his staff. "With due respect, my Lord, I will also depart for my chambers, with your leave."

"Thank you, Talon," said Kentus. "Your input is heavily valued."

As Talon's cloak disappeared around the corner and the door swung shut, heavily slamming as the iron bolt rattled, Kentus gave a great sigh and sat back in his chair, closing his eyes. Geani glanced at him, and looked back at the wall.

"Did we do the right thing?" asked Kentus eventually.

Geani didn't answer for several seconds. "I don't know." The swordsman hesitated. "My Lord, why was Arasha assigned to look after the kid? Wouldn't Ashita be a more logical choice? Arasha's a little too…"

"Too much like you?" smiled Kentus humourlessly, and Geani sighed.

"Well, yes, if you want to put it in those words. And I'm not entirely sure that's a good thing at all."

The King tilted his head. "No? Perhaps not. You're not the most child-friendly person I've ever met. But Arasha…" Geani looked inquisitively at him, and the King continued with a curious tone of affection in his voice. "Arasha and I grew up alongside each other. I've known her since infancy…and underneath that mask of maturity is perhaps the most genuine person I've ever known. Talon knows the same, and that's why he suggested her, and that's why I agreed. She'll be able to connect with a broken child like no one else could."

**000**

He sat quietly and without fuss, head bowed, on the side of the bed. The boy's legs dangled slowly over the lip of the bedframe, and his hands sat in his lap. Arasha examined him from afar; in the past five minutes, the boy had barely moved once; only the steady swing of his feet showed that he was even capable of movement at all. The healers had dressed him in a rough tunic and old stained breeches. The clothes hung from his skinny frame, too big for such a small body. The blood had been washed from his face, and Arasha could see the pink patches on his cheeks where they'd been scrubbed vigourously.

The hospital wing covered the entire North-West corner of the second floor of the castle. Primarily a huge hall-like room – dubbed the  
"Slaughterhouse" by many of the men in the King's Army - lined with at least hundred beds, there were also several smaller, single-resident rooms for long-term patients, accommodating their various situations. The regular citizens were assigned a bed in the Slaughterhouse, separated from each other only by a curtain standing between each bed, which could be drawn back to allow the visitor to see the other beds.

At the current time, a good deal of the beds were occupied, several of the King's soldiers injured in battle against the Norr. The boy was among them, surrounded by empty beds to allow him some degree of privacy.

Arasha stood in the open arch doorway of the Hospital Wing, and resolved herself before beginning to walk down the centre of the hall, weaving her way between beds towards where the child sat alone. He didn't look up as she grew near, but lifted his head as she sunk onto the bed next to him.

Bright eyes and a curious expression met her gaze, and before she could even speak a word, she was already taken aback. The boy seemed to suddenly become aware that he was staring, and lowered his head again.

"Sorry, miss…" he stammered. "L-Looking away now…"

Arasha frowned; the head nursemaid, Urdel, was always telling people off for staring at her "desirably", no matter how young or how old, male or female. She was much ridiculed for it in the castle's social circles, but by unspoken agreement no one ever cared to point out that she was an old bat and was seen almost unanimously as absurdly _un_desirable.

"Don't be ashamed," said Arasha bluntly, "and don't listen to a word that old witch tells you to do."

The boy lifted his head again and smiled nervously. Arasha was perturbed by his upbeat attitude; this child seemed a far cry different from the blood-soaked screaming survivor Mataro had described.

The boy shuffled nervously, his legs swinging slightly more jovially as he looked at her, and Arasha realised he was waiting for her to talk first. She hesitated for a second; what was she supposed to say? She quickly racked her brain and came up blank, before deciding to start with the basics. Identity.

"My name is Arasha," she began, "one of the Royal Court. I'm a bodyguard of the King."

The child's fresh face lit up as he smiled widely. "A member of the Court? Really? That's where we are now, isn't it? Slavo Castle?" He looked around in wonder, admiration all over his face as he took in the dry stone walls and unassuming beds. Arasha examined him; he seemed too…_unaware._ Could it be that he didn't remember anything that had happened?

"What's your name, child?"

The boy broke out of his stargazing and looked nervous again, dipping his head. "I-I'm Tarack, Miss Arasha. Just Tarack."

"_Tarack…well, that's something at least. I was going to take this slow, but he seems to be responding well. For the moment, anyway…"_

Arasha frowned inwardly. This boy, despite the horrors he'd evidently witnessed in the destruction of the village didn't seem to be reacting negatively at all. She tried for what she hoped was a reassuring smile.

"Tarack, then. We should get to know each other. I hope you don't mind, but…I've been chosen to look after you from now on."

Tarack was silent for a few seconds, his mouth slightly open. "But…why can't my Mum look after me? Where is she, anyway? I-I want to see her…"

Tarack's bottom lip was beginning to quiver slightly as he shrank back onto the bed. Arasha took a deep breath. Just as she'd thought.

"_He's supressed his memories. He can't recall a thing that's happened."_

This was the reason for his peppy attitude. As far as he was concerned, his village was still perfectly intact. Arasha hesitated. She couldn't lead him on; she'd have to tell him.

"Tarack," began Arasha gently, leaning across the gap between their two beds and touching the boy's knee. "Do you know why you're here in the castle?"

Tarack looked at her, sudden fright in his eyes, and he shook his head quickly, lip still quivering. When he spoke, his voice was very quiet. "N-no…"

A short silence fell between them, Arasha's piercing violet eyes blinking gently. She drew in a deep breath.

"I know how hard this will be to hear; Fowledge was attacked by something…someone. Tarack…you were the only survivor. The village was destroyed."

Tarack just looked at her for a few seconds, mouth slightly open. "No…" he finally murmured, and he shook his head violently, shuffling himself backwards away a few inches so that her hand fell from his knee. "No, you're lying…" His bottom lip shook harder than ever as he spoke. "That was…was just a dream I had. It didn't…" Tarack was beginning to breathe harder, and he was flicking his gaze back and forth, looking everywhere but Arasha. "…didn't happen. It wasn't real!"

He pulled his legs up onto the bed and wrapped his arms around his knees, shaking. Arasha could see his eyes glistening. "You're not my mother. She's waiting for me at home, with Linke. They're waiting for me…"

He looked at her.

"…aren't they?"

"Try to understand, Tarack."

"I want to go home…" the boy responded, and dipped his head, hiding his face. Arasha watched him in regret; this wouldn't be easy at all, especially for one so young. Tarack's shoulders shook slightly, and the boy began to quietly cry.

The bed sunk beside him as Arasha lowered herself onto the sheets and sat awkwardly beside him, inwardly struggling to think of what to do. Part of her wanted to think that this was utterly ridiculous, assigning her to look after the boy; babysitting for children definitely wasn't her strong suit. But at the same time, Arasha knew why she'd been chosen; everything in this boy's actions mirrored her own at an even younger age. She knew exactly of the pain he had suddenly had thrust upon him.

"It seems hopeless, doesn't it?" she murmured, as Tarack's gentle sobbing continued. "It doesn't feel fair. It's _not _fair, to have your loved ones torn away from you like this. Your home gone. To be suddenly living in a strange, strange world, where everyone's an unknown face." On a sudden motherly instinct, Arasha placed a hesitant arm around Tarack's small shoulders.

"I know what it's like. When my sister and I were just five years old, our homestead was attacked and destroyed by a cruel warlord's son. He slayed my father in battle and burned the farm to the ground. All our livestock slaughtered, our crops destroyed. My mother, uncle, aunt, and cousins died in the blaze, until it was only my sister and I, left all alone in this cruel, cruel world. All thanks to that bastard who attacked us.

"We were taken in by the castle, just as you've been. But even though we made new friends and gained a new family, I always had that missing part of my own soul where my parents had been. It seems hopeless, and…_impossible, _at times. But we always pulled through. I promise you, Tarack, I'll always guide you and be there for you, as a fellow orphan."

Arasha finished speaking, dimly surprised at herself. Tarack sniffed and spluttered to himself, and didn't answer in words, but he shuffled closer and nuzzled feebly against her, cuddling up to her bosom.

And there they sat. Arasha didn't keep track of the time, just stroked Tarack's hair gently as he released every ounce of his inner anguish. Together, orphans.

**000**

Krill scratched uncomfortably at the leather armour clad to his body as he walked through the castle corridors. Recently fitted for him, the armour was identical to the traditional Slavoan warrior garb worn by most of the King's Army, with the exception of a gold-coloured ring around each shoulder and much finer craftsmanship.

And it was also really uncomfortable. Geani had sternly suggested wearing it as often as possible to be accustomed to the feel of it on his body, but Krill was beginning to severely regret following that particular instruction.

The prince exited the long hallways and into the Throne Room, moving past the sunken pit in the middle on the way to the enormous stone doors leading to the city beyond. After the retaking of Musta two weeks before and the still unknown slaughter in the South-East, Krill's lessons had been doubled to prepare him for the inevitable war that was brimming on the horizon. The King had insisted on it.

Krill pulled a face to himself. All of his free time had been eaten up lately, but finally he'd broken away from his various duties to be able to venture down into the city.

He briefly glanced around at the Throne Room and slowed to a stop. At the very end of the vast table that seated the Royals during their meals, a small body was slumped, head on his arms. A mop of curly ginger hair covered his scalp, and Krill immediately changed his course, strolling over and pulling up the chair beside Tarack.

"Hey, kid," he said, and Tarack sat up, a grim smile perking up. It was a sad expression for someone so young, but Krill knew Tarack had been changed by the massacre of his village. Forced to grow up fast to cope.

Despite the age different between them – Krill's fourteen to Tarack's seven – the two had bonded over the fortnight Tarack had been at the castle. "Why are you sitting here all alone? Feeling a little lonely?"

"Ms. Arasha's in a meeting with your Dad," said Tarack quietly. "Mister Talon said I wasn't allowed in, and I don't really know anyone else."

"That's too bad, huh…" said Krill after a pause. "Tell you what; you wanna come with me? I know a place I reckon you'll like. It'll cheer you up, you know?"

Tarack's face brightened slightly. "Really?"

Krill stood and pulled the kid up with him. "Yeah, of course. No point just thinking about what's happened all the time. What you need is something to take your mind off things."

"Thank you," stuttered Tarack as they rose. Krill winked at him, but as he lifted his gaze he froze.

In the very corner of the Throne Room, standing in the crook of the staircase in the shadows, Korros stood watching. Krill swallowed unconsciously as the Namekian surveyed them, arms folded and a grim expression. The whites of his eyes glinted. He didn't blink.

"C-Come on, Tarack," said Krill absent-mindedly, and forced himself to tear his gaze from Korros' almost accusing eyes. The Namekian was scary and mysterious; Krill knew he wasn't the only one who feared the tall warrior. As the two youths moved to the grand doors and down the colossal stairs and into the city proper, Krill could feel Korros' eyes on their backs. Watching their every move.

**000**

"How's he managing?"

Kentus posed the question as he busied himself at his desk, occasionally scribbling a quick signature on a roll of paper and pressing his official seal beside it. Arasha stood on the other side of the desk, arms folded.

"Better than we'd hoped," she said. "He's willing to speak and eats well. Makes little to no complaints. But, inside, he's distraught and traumatised. He told me he has nightmares every night."

"Poor kid," said Ashita, perched on the corner of the desk with one leg up, her arms resting around it and chin slumped on top. "It must be awful for him."

"It would be…I'm sorry to ask, Arasha," began Kentus reluctantly, and stopped his paper shuffling, looking at his companion. "But, the sooner we find out what he knows, the sooner we can find out who did this to him in the first place. When he's ready, you have to question him."

"We _must _know," intoned Talon from the corner of the room, and Arasha flinched. She hadn't even realised he was there. "If possible, question him sooner. Do you think it could have been him that did it?"

Arasha shook her head immediately. "No way. His memory of what happened is extremely blurry, but he said that in his nightmares, a creature of darkness stalks him. I think this monster is what destroyed Fowledge. He was terrified of it."

Kentus smiled grimly. "I'm not sure whether to feel relieved or alarmed. I'm glad the chances of Tarack committing this atrocity are becoming less, but…" He drifted off.

"…But if it _was _this child, it'd be a lot easier to deal with the threat," finished Talon.

Kentus was staring at the wall behind Arasha, and his face tightened. "Yes."

**000**

The air outside in the city felt fresh and clean, lightly breezing into Krill's nostrils as he led Tarack through the districts. The kid stuck close to him, as if he were afraid to get lost amongst the houses and markets. The prince realised that Slavo City must be very foreign to Tarack's eyes. Fowledge was out of the way, deliberately distanced from the rest of the Kingdom and with their own tight-knit society. The hustle and bustle of a major city would be a completely different environment.

The faint scent of a tasty-smelling stew clung to the air, sharpened by the spice. Krill and Tarack hunted it down together, Krill paying seven coins for two bowls of the broth. They sat on a bench running along the side of the shack and ate it together in polished wooden bowls, slurping loudly as it burned their tongues.

"You'll get used to life here," Krill told the boy as they watched a group of children run past, throwing a faded red ball to one another. "It might seem big and scary now, but life's pretty fun here at the castle."

Tarack had nodded and finished eating his stew, but Krill could see a tiny measure of fright in his eyes. And then, for a split second, the boy's pupils darkened, before turning back to their innocent blue. Krill started, but assumed it was a trick of the light.

"Let's go," he said, when they'd finished their meal. "I've got someone I want you to meet."

They returned their bowls to the eatery and the prince led Tarack down a side road and into an adjacent street, walking confidently up to an unassuming shop and pushing open the door. A small bell tinkled cheerfully, and with a hesitant curiosity, Tarack followed him inside. The door swung shut automatically behind him.

The shop was surprisingly large, its warm interior and spaced floor making it appear larger on the inside than it had been from the outside. A small fireplace crackled cheerfully against the right-hand wall, and shelves lined the room, each piled with colourful trinkets and fiddly looking gadgets. Opposite the door, a long counter barred the way to a door leading into a backroom. Even more merchandise was atop the counter.

"Barthel!" called Krill, and picked a sizable gem from the counter, examining it closely. "Where are you, old man?"

Tarack had a fright as there was a great booming laugh from the back room, and suddenly a man ducked under the low frame and stepped up behind the counter. Skinny limbs and a freakishly long body made him look like a living stick. Barthel was dressed in a colourful striped shirt and had silvery white hair. His face looked warm and friendly, perhaps accentuated by his brilliant smile.

"Don't you give me that, pumpkin head!" Barthel laughed, as he saw Krill. "I may be getting old, but I'd wager I know a lot more than you or Geani or _anyone _up at that fancy castle of yours." The shopkeeper looked Krill and up and down. "Look at you, all done up in your armour. Geani driving you hard again?"

"Kinda," grimaced Krill.

Barthel winked at him, and suddenly noticed Tarack standing nervously at the door. "Ho, who's this? Come over here, kiddo; you a friend of this whiny brat?"

Krill raised an eyebrow at the man as Tarack crossed the shop to the counter, mouth slightly open in surprise. "Don't listen to this old fart," he retaliated, and Barthel cuffed him lightly across the back of the head.

"What's your name, kid?" asked Barthel as Tarack reached the counter.

"I'm Tarack, mister."

"Mister? You hear that, Krill?" Barthel smiled gently and ruffled Tarack's hair across the counter. "This shop has one rule; no standing on ceremony. Barthel's my name, and magic's my game, so make yourself at home, Tarack."

"Barthel's a trickster magician," explained Krill. "Former court jester turned moron."

Tarack laughed, and Krill saw his body relax slightly. He smiled to himself; it had been a good idea to bring him here. Barthel had a unique skill of befriending everybody, and was the person to go to when you needed some good cheer. Perfect for a kid dealing with some serious trauma.

Barthel plucked the gem from Krill's hands and winked at Tarack again. "Check this money-maker out. Looks priceless, doesn't it? Completely made of glass, but those stuffy lords and ladies don't know the difference between this and the real thing. They pay me a fortune for them."

"Isn't that lying?" asked Tarack, a cheeky grin sliding over his face.

Barthel threw the gem in the air and caught it in his slender fingers. "Not if they don't find out." He put the fake jewel back on the counter and tapped his chin.

"You ever used magic before, Tarack?"

"No, miste-I mean, Barthel, sir."

Barthel exchanged a grin with Krill. "My branch of power isn't like the killer attacks those mages use in the army. Mine's much more fun. Here, let me show you a little something…"

He raised his hands and rubbed them together, Tarack watching eagerly. Suddenly, there was a loud chime as the door opened, and Barthel looked up.

"Prince Krill!" declared a page, and Krill recognised him as the one who had almost been killed by Geani the day Mataro had returned. "I found you. Your Majesty the King has sent me to find you. He wants you up at the castle."

Krill scowled. "Typical. Can't spend a day doing what I want."

Barthel clapped him on the shoulder, grinning widely. "Duty calls when you're a prince; it's your service to the people."

Krill gave him a sarcastic stare and Barthel only grinned harder. "I'd better go then or Dad'll give me a grilling. And if he doesn't, Geani will. Come on, Tarack, we gotta go."

Tarack pouted. "Okay…" He gave Barthel a fleeting glance and began to follow Krill to the door, when the shopkeeper waved him back.

"Oh, he can stay, he can stay. Don't make him endure your princely hell, Krillington Anglesworth. I'll keep him company for the afternoon."

Tarack's face lit up and he scurried back to the counter. Krill smiled at the kid's reaction, feeling a useless pang of jealousy at Barthel for his inhavien social skills. "Have fun, then," he laughed, and followed the page out.

"You'll never guess what I saw General Mataro and Lady Ashita doing the other day…" sounded the page's voice, and then the door closed, leaving Tarack and Barthel alone.

"Now, where were we?" wondered Barthel aloud, and then snapped his fingers. Tarack gave a cry of alarm as he felt his body lurch upwards, suspended in midair. Barthel chuckled and manoeuvred the boy telekinetically onto the counter, sitting him down on his rump atop the countertop.

"How'd you do that?!" praised Tarack, eyes wide and wondering. Barthel winked. He seemed to do it a lot.

"Magic, kiddo. _My _magic."

As Tarack quietly remained dazzled, Barthel went about his business, pointing out several of his artifacts and trinkets. His trick shop, he explained, was very successful due to the rare and unique items he sold. Tarack latched onto every word he said, nodding eagerly and asking questions.

"Here, take a look at this!" said Barthel as Tarack finished examining a jack-in-the-box that wound itself up (and did so at random times, meaning that it would often open when you least expected it). The trickster pulled an old book from under the counter and dropped it on the benchtop. The book looked ancient; the brown leather cover had been meticulously decorated and inlaid with tiny jewels.

"This is easily the most valuable item I own," said Barthel, as Tarack ran his hands over the cover. "A book of legends. Those are real diamonds on the cover. Open it up, take a look."

Tarack did so, being extremely careful as he turned the front page. The book felt invaluable, and he was scared of damaging it. In Fowledge, Tarack had never learned to read, but thankfully there were pictures of each myth detailed in the book; they were works of art, each brushstroke looking magical all on its own. The pictures were almost alive.

Barthel grinned smugly as Tarack moved through the book, and tapped a spindly finger on one of the pages. "This is the only copy of this I've ever heard of. Came across it years ago, it's not for sale under any circumstances."

Tarack nodded silently as he looked at a depiction of a man with a deep red energy surrounding his body, forming the shape of a savage-looking creature with several legs and curved fangs. He shivered, and quickly turned the page.

He froze.

He'd arrived at the end of the book, and the last legend. A large green dragon with sparkling scales and a colossal body detailed the canvas, and down the bottom, seven golden-orange orbs were decorated the ground beneath the dragon. They all had some number of stars on them, ranging from one to seven.

"Ah, the Dragon Balls!" declared Barthel proudly, and pointed to them, counting upwards. "Aren't they magnificent. According to the legend, if you gather all seven Balls, you can summon the legendary dragon Azulong to grant you a wish. Any wish you want."

Tarack was silent, staring with a strange hunger at the page. His orange hair hung over his eyes, masking them from view.

"You OK, kiddo?" asked Barthel casually, and began to close the book. "Don't get too obsessed with ancient magic like that, it'll destroy even the wisest men.

SLAM!

Tarack's hand moved like a bullet, coming down upon the now-closed book and pinning it to the counter. Barthel jumped. "Hey, watch it, kiddo, that's valuable!"

"Where are the Dragon Balls?"

Barthel took a step back. Tarack's head was still lowered, but his expression was cold. And his voice…

It wasn't the voice of a boy. It was low and deep, gravelly. And it carried a power about it, something completely foreign to Haven. The voice boasted power beyond comprehension.

"Where are they?" repeated Tarack, and suddenly he raised his head. Barthel's eyes widened, and he backed away from the counter, abandoning the book. The child's pupils had changed, the blue irises now a pitch black, like the darkness itself. Red cracks forked across the whites of his eyes, and he stared at Barthel with the ruthless chill of someone who wasn't to be ever, _ever_ crossed.

"Hey, kid, what's come over you?" stammered Barthel, backing up against the wall. "Tarack?"

**000**

Krill grimaced as he dawdled through the corridors on the way to his father's office. He wanted to return to Barthel's shop with Tarack. Beside him, the page babbled on and on about the going-ons in the castle and the city, and Krill nodded to affirm that he was listening, which he wasn't.

"You know what?" he finally said, cutting the page off. "I need to think for a while, and I know the way to my own father's office. Go clean something, deliver other messages or whatever. I'll be fine on my own."

The page nodded, and performed a smart salute. "Of course!"

"Whatever," said Krill as the page hurried off. The prince continued on his path through the castle, when suddenly a hand clapped down on his shoulder.

Krill was spun around by a powerful grip, and went pale as he found himself face to face with Korros, the Namekian.

"You're alone." Korros stared at him, eyes never blinking. "Where's the boy?"

**000**

"Kentus!" gasped Ashita, sliding off the desk, and the King and Arasha both reacted as well. "Do you feel that?"

"It's the same energy that attacked Fowledge," declared Talon, leaning on his staff. "He's here."

**000**

Barthel wretched as he was thrown against the wall, Tarack's iron fingers digging into this throat. The magician grabbed at the hand that held him to take some of the pressure off his windpipe as he dangled at least a foot above the ground. Tarack hovered in midair in front of him, holding him against the wall of the shop.

Darkness swirled all around the boy, the terrible, angry expression on his face looking even worse on a child. His arm had mutated, turning grey and muscular. Barthel beat at the arm, but Tarack – no…the _demon – _didn't even seem to feel it. His orange hair spiked up at crazy angles as an ancient energy coursed through his body, empowering him.

"I won't ask you again!" hissed the voice of a nightmare, coming from Tarack's throat. Barthel writhed against the wall, struggling for breath. "Where are they?"

"I don't…_know!" _shouted Barthel desperately. "They're scatted across Haven, I don't know where they are!"

"Liar!" said Tarack, and tightened his grip. Barthel's eyes bulged. "You're a trickster and a master conman, but I know you're lying. Someone like you would know the location of at least one. You can't hide your knowledge from me, I'll squeeze it out of you!"

Barthel choked, turning blue. "I…d-don't…"

Tarack shook him like a ragdoll and slammed him back against the wall. "Go on…"

The shopkeeper's mouth flickered, as if he were about to say something. He still struggled to relieve the pressure from his windpipe. Finally, he gave in, and looked Tarack in the eye, immediately regretting it. The black pupils were remorseless.

"A Dragon Ball…in the castle," Barthel gasped. "Embedded in…the throne!"

He wretched again and Tarack smiled cruelly. "Thank you. It's a start, at least."

And with that he snapped the old magician's neck like it was a twig. Barthel went limp, eyes staring blankly, and Tarack dropped him to the ground below in a heap. He lay slumped against the wall, a trickle of blood running from the corner of his mouth.

Tarack turned and rode the shadows to the door, calmly raising a hand and making a fist. A wave of darkness rose and punched out the door, shattering it to fragments. Tarack left the shop behind him, fire still crackling against the wall, forever warming the body of the man who had once stoked it.

**000**

Krill stumbled in fear as he followed Korros into the Throne Room. The Namekian had barely wasted a word, just striding off at a brisk pace, Krill hot on his heels. And here they were.

"The city's in great danger," said Korros as they emerged into the hall. "The force that destroyed Fowledge is here. You were lucky you weren't still hanging around."

The Throne room was deserted, a few chairs drawn back at the sunken table, but no one occupying them. The guards had closed the great stone doors as the afternoon had moved on. Korros quickly scanned the hall and took a step forward, just as the door opposite them burst open and the King entered, flanked by the twins and Talon.

"King Kentus!" barked Korros across the distance, his voice echoing through the empty chamber. "It's here in the city realm. I can sense it."

"We know," said Kentus grimly, and suddenly Talon drew in a great breath, turning towards the closed doors.

"_He's coming!"_

Krill's stomach jumped into his throat, and he felt very out of his depth. He knew of the great power that had destroyed Tarack's home village. Including the fact that there had been Norr soldiers amongst the dead. Even those trained killers had been effortlessly beaten down by whatever had attacked the town.

"That thing's here?" he gibbered. "Is it after Tarack?"

Korros readied himself, assuming a fighting stance. His fangs were bared. "No, boy…it _is _Tarack…"

And then there was a great roll of thunder and the doors to the castle burst open, propelled by some ancient force. Krill yelled in fear as a dark shape hurricaned through the gateway, trailing shadows like smoke.

Ginger locks, a tiny body. And a long grey arm, deformed and terrible.

Tarack had come.

The demon tore across the length of the Throne Room, lips drawn back in a furious yell. His grey arm stretched out, fingers like claws…

FWP-FWP-PHBM-PHBM!

Krill's eyed widened in shock as Tarack was stopped in his tracks, a look of shock across the child's face. Arasha and Ashita had moved like shadows, in perfect unison, protecting their king. Pirouetting into the air, they'd spun, swinging their legs around and catching Tarack in the chest from either side.

Tarack bellowed and was thrown backwards. Krill gasped at the strength of the twin kicks; the demon rocketed down the length of the thirty-metre table, collecting every piece of cutlery atop the bench, and flew back out the doors and down the front steps of the castle, into the city. He carved a trench down the great road, the stone of the ground parting before his body.

"Talon!" commanded Kentus.

The old mage swung his staff and the stone doors of the castle swung shut again, slamming with a great boom. The great iron bar that acted as a lock lowered and sealed them.

"Krill, stay back," ordered Kentus, as Ashita and Arasha dropped back down to the ground. Krill nodded fearfully, backing away, but suddenly there was a rumble louder than anything he'd ever heard, and the entire castle shook, the ground moving beneath his feet. The doors shook, but held, supported by both the iron bar and Talon's magic.

"He's breaking through!" yelled Korros, and the ground shook again. Krill fell against the wall, shaking in terror. There was a third quake and suddenly the bar shattered and with a crash of stone the doors were blasted open, cracks running across them. A cloud of dust billowed into the hall, and the defenders braced themselves.

"_Do not defy me!" _An ancient dark voice screamed out from outside the now ruined doors, and Tarack strode back inside. A tempest of wind and shadow surrounded him in an evil aura. "_Or I'll kill every person in this city and bring this kingdom to its _knees_!"_

Talon swung his staff and pointed it directly at Tarack's body. The end glowed and Krill's hair stood on end as a beam of white-green energy fired from the top like a cannon, sucking all the colour from the air. The beam reached the demon in an instant, but suddenly Tarack was flying, moving over the energy stream and avoiding it effortlessly. There was a great explosion as the beam collided with the ground where Tarack had been, lighting up the Throne Room.

Tarack soared across the hall and met Korros in midair. The shadows moved liked snakes and wrapped around the Namekian's leg, swinging him around and hurling him at the wall as Tarack landed on the head of the table.

"We're here!" shouted a valiant voice, and Krill gasped as Geani and Mataro shimmered out of nowhere on either side of Kentus. Geani clutched twin curved swords in his hands and Mataro lowered himself into a defensive position. Krill shrunk back against the wall in the corner, realising once again just why Mataro was the General of the King's Army. The intense look of hatred across the man's face was frightening.

"Get out of our city," growled Mataro.

Tarack straightened up as he took in his opponents. He raised a fist to eye level and smiled. "And if I don't?"

Everyone present took in breath as Tarack's darkness rose around him, swirling like a storm. It devoured his legs, eating away at the breeches on the child's legs until it hugged his skin like clothes of their own. And beneath the shadows, the flesh moved. Krill felt sick as Tarack's legs rippled and bulged, lengthening, and suddenly the shadows were cast off to reveal smooth grey skin, and clawed feet. The mutation stopped around his waist, his entire lower body reborn. A demon's body.

"He's taking over the child…" murmured Arasha. "Stealing his body...Tarack…"

"Why are you doing this?!" shouted Mataro. "He's just a kid!"

"I need his body to sustain a material form for myself," said the demon from Tarack's mouth. He spread his arms, one grey and evil, the other tiny and pale. "And through him, I'll achieve every one of my goals. My ambition. On the shores of Lake Fowl Tarack stated his wish to rule. And I'm obliging him."

The demon pointed. "But I grow tired of talking with you mortals. Give me the treasure hidden in that throne."

Kentus threw his arm out, and a great white rush of energy surrounded him. "My people will not suffer under you! As their king, I will _protect them_!"

The King surged forward, barely visible, and swung his leg. Tarack shifted his weight and blocked the blow with his grey arm. Kentus flipped in the air and arced down to the demon's other side, bringing his leg down atop Tarack's head. The boy moved out of the way just in time, pushing off the table and sailing into the air. Kentus' leg came down on the polished wood and it cracked in half beneath his foot, the entire thirty-metre long bench collapsing in on itself.

Tarack spread his fingers and fired several ki blasts from his palm, the energy balls exploding around the King, before continuing his journey through the air and kicking off one of the pillars holding up the viewing platforms and shooting back towards the throne.

"That Dragon Ball is _mine!" _he shouted, as Mataro leaped up to meet him. The two exchanged a blinding set of punches, arms moving like pistons, and then Mataro spun and caught Tarack in the side with a powerful kick. Tarack was thrown off course and skidded along the ground, but he flipped back to his feet just in time to limbo under a sword slash. The demon backflipped, catching Geani in the stomach as he went, and then charged for the throne again as the swordsman was knocked backwards.

"_He's so fast!" _thought Krill, still huddled in the corner. The prince watched the battle in terror.

"_Get out of my way!" _bellowed the demon, and he thrust out his arm, sending ribbons of shadows towards Talon. The Spellweaver spun his staff and deflected them easily, old age insignificant as he stepped up and swung his staff into Tarack's throat. Tarack's eyes bulged as his breath was cut off by the strike.

Talon's staff glowed and suddenly there was a flare of light, picking Tarack up and throwing him into the air against the roof. He smashed into the stone ceiling and began the fall back down, but caught himself in midair and hovered around.

PHBM!

Korros' leg slammed against Tarack's back and he bellowed, inertia pouring into his deformed body and throwing him back. The stone stairs at the other end of the room collapsed to rubble as he collided with them, before stumbling back to his feet and staggering out. His face was twisted into a ferocious snarl.

"Forget about me?" growled Korros, hovering in the air. His cape rippled in the air behind him.

"You…!" hissed Tarack, and hunched over, collecting his energy about him. The shadows writhed as they surrounded his body, condensing and becoming darker. The pressure in the air increased massively, and Ashita gasped.

"Brace yourselves!" she screamed, and then Tarack threw his arms forward, a furious inhuman howl tearing from between his teeth. The shadows lurched and cannoned outwards, dark energy permeating every inch of the room. The defenders were all blown back, leaving the path to the throne clear. Tarack sneered and exploded from the ground, a trail of darkness marking his path. The boy streaked across the length of the Throne Room and stretched out his grey arm, coming within inches of the Dragon Ball shining at the head of the stone seat…

And then he was stopped dead as two powerful hands closed around his wrist, stopping his lunge in its tracks. Tarack hissed as he looked down to see the King crouching below him, between the demon and the throne.

"You're not laying a finger on that Dragon Ball until I'm dead at your feet," snarled Kentus, and then he drew back his fist and punched Tarack across the face.

Tarack's face shattered under the blow and he was propelled backwards, rolling and bouncing across the stone floor and sliding to a stop halfway along the sunken pit in the middle of the hall. The demon writhed as blood exploded from his crushed face.

"Everyone!" bellowed Kentus, as Tarack staggered to his feet. There was a flash of movement and suddenly the air was filled as the King's companions arced through the air towards him. Arasha and Ashita moved in complete unison, as to their side Mataro's fist blazed with white energy and Geani's swords hummed through the air. The demon gritted his teeth; he had less than a second.

"_Don't think this is over!"_ he hissed, and raised a hand. In an instant, he placed two fingers on his forehead, and then just melted into the air.

BOOM!

The floor where Tarack had been erupted into rubble and dust as the defenders unleashed their attacks, but it was too late; the demon had vanished.

Slowly, the dust settled and a grim silence filled the hall. Krill became aware of screaming and shouting from the city outside as the citizens flocked to see the chaos.

Mataro, Geani, Ashita, Arasha, and Korros straightened up, their energy levels descending to normal. Talon slammed his staff onto the stone beneath him. His eyes were closed.

"His energy signature is on the other side of Haven," said the mage, and opened his eyes. "He's retreated."

"What power…" said Geani, and sheathed his swords. "He fought us all at once without even hesitating..."

Krill stumbled to his feet and nervously tread forward as Kentus descended onto his throne, lost in thought.

"Dad? What was that?"

The others fell silent at the question, and Krill knew they were listening for the answer as well. Kentus looked at him.

"Something not of this world."

"A demon," confirmed Talon, and Korros nodded as well.

"What…what about Tarack?" asked Krill. "It said it was using his body…for what?"

The King sighed. "I don't know. But one thing is for certain, we know it's after the Dragon Balls. That was its goal here today."

"We have to be prepared for if it returns," said Talon, and swept his staff. The rubble across the Throne Room lifted and moved back into place, settling precariously into order. Arasha hung her head.

"Tarack…he's had this thrust upon him…that monster…I failed him."

Ashita wrapped her arms around her sister. "It's not your fault."

"I-I promised him I'd protec-"

Arasha stopped speaking as she looked over Ashita's shoulder, and she hissed in alarm. Geani spun around, drawing his sword, and Mataro and Korros dropped to one knee, ready to fight. But it wasn't the demon returned.

The shattered doors of the Throne Room hung open, light streaming into the hall, and standing straight in the exact centre of the gateway, a man stood, silhouetted against the sun.

Geani scowled. "You."

"Oh dear," said the newcomer, looking around the hall with mocking concern. He had long neat hair and wore the Slavoan leather armour. Across the front, four vertical slashes made up his clan insignia. "What happened here? Home troubles?"

"Cervus of the Norr…" replied Mataro, and began walking forward. "What are you doing here?"

"Stand back!" said Cervus smugly, raising a hand. In it he held a scroll. "I'm here on diplomatic reasons. I bear a message, from Lord Kayne himself. You wouldn't attack a messenger, would you, General Mataro?"

Mataro snarled, and stepped back, as Cervus strode forward, moving between the group assembled in the middle of the hall towards where Kentus sat on the throne. Talon stood to one side, and Krill backed away until he was back in the corner.

In an instant, Ashita and Arasha were by the king's side, phasing across the room like shadows.

"Not another step!" barked Arasha, her authoritative manner back as if her resolve had never even been tested. Protecting Kentus was her life. Personal issues could wait.

"Now, now," tutted Cervus. "Kentus, I never thought you'd feel the need to have bodyguards. And such violent women, too. They should stay in the kitchens."

"Silence, Norr!" answered Kentus, and Krill was surprised at the ferociousness in his voice. "Do not test my patience today. Why weren't you stopped by the city guards and brought to me by them?"

Cervus scowled. "They tried. But part of Lord Kayne's order was that I deliver this message to you by my own terms. _Not _by your guards. They'll be alright."

"You _attacked _them?" demanded Mataro furiously, striding up to the man. "You attacked my men?"

"They attacked me first," replied Cervus coolly, looking Mataro in the eye without fear, before turning back to the king, who was looking equally angry. "Now please…let's not throw accusations around. I request a meal; it's been a long journey. After I have finished eating, I will deliver my message."

"You'll deliver it now!" said Kentus, his voice rising to almost a shout. "How dare you? I'm in half a mind to have you killed right now. The Norr denied all of their privileges and rights when they turned against the Kingdom."

Cervus shook his head. "You're a foolish man, my Lord. Come the final battle, Kayne will strike you dow-"

PHMB!

Krill gasped as Kentus' fingers closed around Cervus' throat. He hadn't even seen his father move. In an instant the King lifted Cervus off the ground and slammed him onto his back against the floor. It cracked under the impact, a small crater giving way under the Norr's body. Cervus cried out and blood vomited from his mouth.

"You come into my city!" roared Kentus. "You insult my honour, attack my guards, and demand asylum! I will not stand for this from a _traitor!_"

His voice echoed around the entire Throne Room, magnified by the marble and stone walls. Krill paled and shrunk backwards; he'd never seen his father grow this angry before. And from the nervous glances he saw shoot between the others present, he guessed that they hadn't either.

A white aura flared around Kentus, brilliant flames. "This war has gone one long enough under my watch! How _dare_ you walk in here as if it is still your place? The Norr have gone too far. Deliver your message, oath breaker, and deliver it fast, or I will personally put to you to death here on this castle floor! _Do you understand?!_"

Krill became aware that he was shaking violently, and he leant against the wall. Cervus squirmed in agony, pinned to the ground by the King's iron grip.

"Answer me!" bellowed the King in his face, and the man finally stopped moving, staring balefully up at the man who'd so easily put him down. Blood ran down the side of his face.

"You fool," he spat, and then incredibly, began to laugh. The King narrowed his eyes. "You sit on your throne and you do your job. All because of your royal line. Your precious blood. It doesn't guarantee skill. Not every king is a wise and just ruler."

"And you believe Kayne is?" snarled Kentus.

"Lord Kayne will guide us all to a better and more prosperous era!" shouted Cervus fanatically. "And so, I deliver my message…"

"Go on…"

Krill felt chills run down his spine as Cervus continued. "Lord Kayne wishes me to tell you to gather your army. You say you're tired of this war. So is he. He wishes to end all the conflict, and finally claim his place on that throne so that the new era can begin."

Cervus grinned insanely. "He says to gather your all-powerful King's Army and prepare for the final battle. One week from today, the Norr and the Prion will band together and march on this castle, with Lord Kayne at our head. The revolution has reached its climax. The final verdict will be decided on that day. And on that day, my King…your life will end."

**000**

AAAARRRRGGGGHHH~! *Tears out hair* I'M SO FREAKING HAPPY! After five months of Writer's Block and no inspiration, I've finished off Part 3.

I'm proud of myself :3 Not only is this the longest chapter I've ever written (beating my Naruto one-shot - Comrades – by almost 2000 words), but the last _6000 _words I wrote today, in one afternoon. I took that Writer's Block and kicked it to the curb. Like a BOSS.

Wow, things are really heating up now. The demon's revealed itself the King, and Lord Kayne declares the final war. But can the King's Army defend against the combined forces of the Norr and the Prion? Find out in Part of Dragon Ball X: Kingdom Crushed!


End file.
